


Slices of Life

by Etheostoma



Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: AU as of Season 3, Again I can't help myself, And intermittent smutty makeouts, Because I'm me and they're perfect for it, Because we all want more of those with these two, But I can't even begin to care, Domestic fluff and every day adventures, Exactly what the title says, F/M, Jim and Walter family feels, Occasional angst, This has morphed into much more of a family fic than a shippy one, With a few surprises thrown into the mix
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-03-16 13:17:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13637031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etheostoma/pseuds/Etheostoma
Summary: Snapshots of day-to-day affairs throughout the course of Barbara and Walter's relationship, with periodic interludes featuring Jim (and the inevitable awkward, family-building moments that follow)





	1. Just Another Friday

**Author's Note:**

> Weeeell, I've gone and started a multi-chapter fic. I knew it was coming. The chapters will not be in any particular order--I'm going to just be writing as I feel it--but they might reference each other as I go. At this point in time I'm planning to just use this as my home base for all the random little fics I come up with for these two dorks. If anyone wants to make requests for chapters please do by all means!! I tend to write more consistently when I have people throwing ideas at me.

It was _finally_ Friday. Not Barbara's _usual_ Friday, which typically masqueraded as a Monday in disguise and pushed her into a double-shift on both Saturday and Sunday. The start time was never consistent, either--sometimes she worked the graveyard shift, carrying through the night and inevitably staying late into the morning until she could slip out three or four hours past time, staggering out to her car and flopping into the driver's seat, blinking as the mid-morning sunlight flooded eyes adapted to fluorescent bulbs. Sometimes she went in first thing in the morning, intending to work her scheduled twelve hours and be done with it, only to get whisked away into a last-minute emergency call and be spat back out on the sidewalk just as one day rolled into the next. 

Her sleep schedule was shot to hell, night bleeding into day and the presence of sunlight not making any difference whatsoever in whether she slept or not. She couldn't remember the last time she'd actually had a weekend off; with Jim being Jim and out "Trollhunting" all the time, he was never home when he used to be, and so she took on more shifts, volunteered to switch with people who had sick kids, who had unexpected birthday parties and nights out. _She_ certainly never had plans, never had anyone to go home to or anything to make her feel she needed to have a consistent schedule.

Jim had grown up far too early, taking on the burdens of the world somewhere along the way when her back was turned. By the time she realized, it was too late, and her baby boy was well on his way to being a man and certainly didn't need the same amount of "mothering".

Not that she'd been there as much as she'd wished even when he was young. The guilt was always there in varying amounts--she'd had to spend far too much time at the hospital than she had wanted during the course of Jim's childhood. Single parenting didn't leave many options on the table when there were no other sources of income from which to draw, and she'd had to work _years_ of night shifts in order to be able to be a parent, to be able to go to his open houses and parent-teacher nights, to be able to have that one weekend where she could do a birthday party.

Her every spare moment had gone into Jim--and she didn't regret it for an instant.

This weekend, though--this weekend was _hers_.

Friday was just that, a Friday. No work Saturday, no work Sunday. Just one more shift to get through and she was a free agent for an entire two days. Barbara wasn't sure how to take that, either--for the longest time, it had just been her and Jim against the world, pushing each other to get through the bad times and fighting to show the world that they weren't defined by all the shit her ex had put them through.

Barbara went through the day with purpose, constantly expecting some major emergency to rear its head and tear her out of her carefully calculated schedule. But, six pm rolled around without incident, and Barbara all but sprinted to the door as the clock changed. "Big plans, Dr. Lake?" the nurse at the welcome station teased, a knowing grin playing on her lips. "Nothing big, Tracy," Barbara demurred, the small smile and blush that spread across her cheeks giving her away. "Mmhmm, well, you get out of here stat before they find an excuse to drag you back to that ER," the other woman replied, nodding at the door. 

Barbara didn't have to be told twice, slipping through the door and fishing her neglected phone out of her pocket. One message from Jim sometime after lunch, saying he'd be in Trollmarket all weekend helping with the repairs, and one note from Walter: _Hopefully your day is not too overrun with crises, my dear. I'll be there at six to pick you up regardless, and heaven help any morons who stand in my way._

She grinned and rolled her eyes as she imagined him typing out the sardonic missive, reading through it twice before realizing she was standing in the darkened parking lot staring dopily at her cell phone. Red-faced, she stuffed it in the pocket of her scrubs and looked up--to see Walter parked not ten feet away, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips as he stared blatantly at her through the windshield.

"Of course," she muttered, rolling her eyes and shooting him a look of fond exasperation as she jogged over to the vehicle. "Do you ever catch me _not_ being ridiculous?" she lamented, opening the passenger door and sliding in beside him, snapping her seatbelt into place.

He took her hand as she released the strap, giving it a quick squeeze before letting go to turn the key in the ignition. "You've yet to demonstrate any instance of ridiculousness in all the time I've known you, my dear," he replied, pulling away from the curb and guiding them out of the hospital parking lot.

She gave a noncommittal "Hmm," and closed her eyes, leaning back against the headrest and letting the trials of the day ease from her tired body. It hadn't been a terrible day by any standards, but a twelve-hour shift was still a twelve-hour shift, and Barbara was _tired_. Her feet ached, and her lower back gave an annoying tug as she moved, voicing its complaints at her hours spent over the table with a young man bleeding out from a car wreck. 

Walter glanced over in concern, his green eyes soft in the light of the passing streetlights. "Are you alright, my dear?" he asked, right hand leaving the steering wheel to find hers once more.

"Oh yes," Barbara's eyes fluttered open and she mustered a small, tired smile in return, squeezing his fingers. "Day eight of eight," she said by way of explanation. "I'm just a bit worn out, is all." 

And Walter knew it well. Since their return from Trollmarket following Gunmar's defeat, Barbara had been going one hundred miles an hour, patching up trolls and Changelings in the days following the battle and then launching straight over into a week of nonstop shifts at the hospital. He had done his best to help where he could, spending far more time at the Lake's house than his own small apartment in order to keep things cleaned up and have food ready and waiting when Barbara got home.

He and Jim had crossed paths briefly, that first afternoon he decided making dinner would not be considered intruding, as the young Trollhunter came trooping through the door flanked by Claire and Toby. Jim had pulled up short, eyebrows knit together in consternation as he took in the sight of his Changeling principal-turned-enemy-turned-ally-turned- _something-_ to-his-mother standing in the middle of his kitchen with a pot of water balanced in one hand and the other turning on the burner at the stove. "Pasta," Walter had offered, a light flush staining his cheeks as he glanced awkwardly over Jim's shoulders rather than meet his eyes. "For dinner--for Barbara. She hasn't been home long enough to _eat_ anything this week, let along attempt to make something."

"Awk-ward," Toby had muttered, grunting as Claire elbowed him sharply in the stomach. "Shut up," she'd hissed, eyes soft as she looked between the bemused Jim and the Changeling in the kitchen. "It's sweet."

And Walter had flushed even more, setting the pot on the burner with a dull thunk and raising one hand to the back of his neck. "I can go, if you wish," he had offered, the uncharacteristic uncertainty making Jim's eyebrows shoot skyward.

"N-No, it's fine," the boy had returned, a slight smile stealing across his face as he seemed to come to some internal decision. "We're heading out anyway--Blinky needs all hands on deck getting things organized back in Trollmarket." His eyes narrowed. "You take care of her," he commanded, and Walter had inclined his head in acquiescence. 

After that, they had settled into a strange understanding where Jim conceded his kitchen duties to Walter, and Walter made sure he was there when Barbara arrived home after each shift.

Now, sitting in the car with her, he found himself once again overcome by the influx of sentiment that always seemed to consume him when he found himself in her presence. She had come to mean everything to him, to be the driving force behind his every action and decision. The thought was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating--having spent centuries striving to ensure he was beholden to no one but himself, to find himself ensnared so neatly in her web was overwhelming.

"Where are we going?" Barbara murmured sleepily, eyes heavy as she blinked ferociously in an effort to force them to remain open.

"Home," he replied, brushing a hand across her brow, smoothing away the lines carved out by the trials of the day.

"But, didn't we have plans?" she protested, struggling to sit up and turning to him in concern. "Walt, you didn't cancel anything on my behalf, did you?"

He gave a low, fond chuckle. "No, my dear, my only plans tonight were taking care of you." His affectionate mien briefly slipped as a flash of hunger blazed in his green eyes, and her pulse jumped ten beats as a flood of desire surged through her in response to his stare. "Plans," he murmured, voice trailing off into a growl that had Barbara suddenly as far from tired as she had ever been, "can wait until tomorrow." And the light passed from his eyes, giving way to a warm and caring regard that had her questioning whether she had simply imagined the lust (and love, though neither of them would acknowledge it yet) burning in his eyes.

"That," she accused, reaching across the center console to grip his thigh (and smirking as he all but shot out of his seat, muscles jumping beneath her hand), "is not playing fair." She jerked as he whipped the car into the driveway and threw it into park, unbuckling to turn and face her with such a loaded look that her breath caught in her chest. "Barbara, dear," he all but purred, leaning over to grip her shoulders and guide him towards her, "I have never played fair." His thumbs stroked along her neck, tracing light patterns across her skin as they trailed along the ridges of her collarbone. Only after she met his advances with a slow smile and a nod did he strike, one hand sliding up to palm her jaw and tilt her head up to meet his descending mouth.

Barbara was on fire, every nerve ending where they touched burning with sensation, the exhaustion of the last two weeks completely eclipsed by the passion that flared beneath her skin. Her hands rose of their own accord and fisted in the lapels of his jacket, tugging him closer as she yielded to his kiss, mouth working ferociously against his as she gave as good as she got.

Walter had not planned to lose his composure in such a manner—he had honestly intended it to be a quiet evening in, no deviations along the way. Fate had a handy manner of intervening, however, and now he found himself consumed by such a tremendous rush of desire that he could not help himself. He groaned and buried his free hand in her hair, its partner shifting from her jaw shifting to trail a fiery path down her neck. It was a kiss both tender and demanding, as Walter sought and searched and took everything she offered from her own embrace.

Lips parting, he took her lower lip between his, worrying it lightly with his teeth before sweeping his tongue into her mouth. Barbara propelled herself forward, pressing her torso as tightly to his as the car seats would allow and wrapping an arm around his shoulder as she tilted her head to allow him better access. Her other hand rose to card restlessly through his hair and causing Walter to growl against her mouth.

Conceding all pretense of propriety, he braced himself and shifted, pulling her across from her seat and into his lap, curling a possessive arm around her back. Barbara laughed into their kiss, a bright, happy sound that he would sacrifice everything to hear every day. She slid her hands up his chest, pushing his jacket down as far as it would go and tracing lines across his ribs over his sweater, feeling him shudder beneath her touch.

She opened eyes that refused to stay focused, meeting his gaze with a look of such desire that he lost what modicum of control he had, eyes flashing scarlet. Barbara inhaled sharply, a shudder of pure lust spiking through her. They hadn’t spoken much of his troll form, but he had caught her eyeing him contemplatively throughout the past few weeks on the few occasions he had elected to shift and had wondered at the gleam he saw in her eyes. Now he knew the path her thoughts had taken and he repressed a groan, tearing his mouth away from hers to trail a line of kisses down the pale column of her neck. He reached the juncture of her neck and shoulder and bit lightly, applying just enough pressure to leave a mark that would claim her as his own.

“Walt,” Barbara breathed, nearly undone by sensation. Her fingers fisted in his hair, yanking him back up to her waiting mouth. She raked her nails lightly down his sides, hands sliding under his dark sweater and across the cool skin of his stomach, tracing lines across his waist and around to his back.

Finally, the need for oxygen overtook them, and both drew back slightly, gasping for breath. Their eyes locked, their mutual hunger giving way to a more muted tenderness.  Walter could not repress a chuckle as they each took in the other’s appearance. Barbara’s hair was snarled, her glasses knocked askew, and her scrub top was riding embarrassingly high on her waist exposing a thin strip of pale stomach that had Walter repressing the urge to lean down and apply the same attentions he had to her neck. For his part, Walter appeared somewhat more composed outwardly, other than the jacket bunched up around his elbows; however, the tell-tale, rapid-fire beat of his traitorous heart beneath her palms gave him away.

“Well—”

“That was—”

They both laughed, Barbara leaning forward to press her face against his chest, melting into his neck and wrapping one arm around his waist as the other rose to his press against his heart. “Thank you, Walt,” she murmured, lips tickling his skin and sending a shudder rippling through him.

“For what?” he inquired, his hand rising without conscious thought to smooth her hair, fingers combing through the fiery strands before settling at the nape of her neck, playing with the fine tendrils that curled about her shoulders.

“Mmm,” she nestled in closer, eyes flickering closed. “For everything the last few weeks. I know you’ve been going out of your way to take care of me—and Jim, as much as he’ll allow—and to keep the house straight and make those _wonderful_ meals for me—” 

Walter smiled, hit by a sudden upwelling of pure adoration toward the woman in his arms. “It was no trouble at all, my dear,” he assured her, tucking an errant hank of hair behind her ear before cupping her cheek in his large palm, thumb smoothing over her bottom lip. He looked down at her with an expression of such tenderness that Barbara thought she very well might melt. “I would do so much more for you with no thought at all for the consequences.” 

The inadvertent sincerity in his words floored them both, and Barbara buried her face in his sweater so he wouldn’t see the uncharacteristic tears that gathered in the corners of her eyes at the utter conviction contained within his words. “I know you would,” she choked out, giving his torso such a ferocious squeeze that Walter knew precisely what it was she wasn’t saying.

“Barbara,” he said thickly, trying not to gulp or stammer as he fought to get the right words out, “I—”

Drawing back from his chest, she pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, eyes bright and swimming with unspoken emotion. “I know, Walter,” she said, nose brushing his chin as she turned her head up to brush her lips against the opposite corner of his mouth. “Me too.”

His heart swelled, and he choked back the words that welled up at her admission, biting back utterances that did no justice to the significance of the situation. Instead, he simply pressed his forehead against hers, eyes slipping shut as he cradled her to him, cherishing the feel of her in his embrace and realizing with dawning wonder that this was the beginning for them—for far too long he had lived on the cusp of his story’s dénouement, always waiting for the catalyst that would send him spiraling down to the conclusion.

A whisper of clothing and the shift of Barbara against his chest brought him back to the present, and he realized as her breathing slowed and softened that the events of the last few weeks had finally caught up with the woman in his arms, sleep claiming her as its own for the night.

Humming, he pressed a light kiss to the top of her head and gathered her in his arms, swinging open the car door and working his way out into the crisp evening air, his burden feather-light in his arms. She would be embarrassed she had fallen asleep, he knew, but it was what he had planned from the beginning. She had all weekend, and after that—well, they had forever.


	2. What You Knead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is baking and much fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no reason for this chapter except I felt like making Walter bake. It's such a solitary endeavor that requires a good bit of focus and hands-on manipulation....seemed fitting for him.
> 
> (and it's also such an easy platform for metaphors, fluff, and puns, so of course I had to go there)

“I really shouldn’t be surprised that you can bake,” Barbara remarked, standing in the doorframe with her hands on her hips and a resigned smile tugging at her lips. “After all, my Trollhunter son is on course to be the next Iron Chef—why shouldn’t my half-troll boyfriend be a master baker?”

  
Walter smirked, hefting the large wad of dough from his mixer to the counter and kneading it with deft strokes, lean hands pressing and turning it before covering it with an oiled piece of plastic. “Why indeed,” he returned, brushing his shoulder across his cheek in an attempt to scratch his nose without using his hands. Seizing the other mound of dough that had been waiting patiently under its own cover, he cut it neatly in half, forming each ball into a long loaf and placing them on a waiting baking pan covered in cornmeal. 

“French bread,” he said by way of explanation, setting the pan aside and brushing off his hands. “Has to sit for a few moments fresh out of the mixer before I cut it and let it rise.”

“It’s a lot of bread for just a random baking whim,” Barbara teased, taking note of the two loaves now rising on top of the oven and the mound of dough still waiting to be split.

Walter’s cheeks flushed faintly, pink spreading across his face and down his neck. “Ah—Jim had said something about making pasta tonight, and I thought perhaps some fresh garlic bread would add nicely to the meal.” He gave a slight laugh. “And, I thought French toast tomorrow might be good?”

Barbara’s heart swelled slightly at such a domestic gesture. She was still getting used to having Walter as a permanent fixture in her— _their_ —home, his apartment lost in the fuss of sorting out living arrangements for displaced trolls and Changelings, sacrificed to house some of his brethren seeking a different lifestyle. It wasn’t a _bad_ different by any means, but having another adult—a _male_ adult to whom she was shamelessly attracted, half-troll or not—in the house was certainly an adjustment.

She expected to see Walter lecturing as a teacher, green eyes stern but kind as he educated youth and adults alike, or even fighting full-force against their dark foes, skin stony and eyes flashing red and yellow as they clashed. She was accustomed to sardonic humor, unyielding discipline, a tight range of control across his emotions.

She knew of his hidden passion—

 _\--eyes burning in the moonlit shadows of a darkened room, skin burning under her roaming hands—_  

Knew of his care and intensity and desire—

_\--l_ _ong, lean fingers cupping her cheeks as they both came down from their high, breath rapid and hearts racing almost in tandem, cradling her to his chest so she could feel the rapid beat of it against her own._

She was very well aware of his fury, his self-loathing and deep regret—

_\--hands clawing at his own skin, tearing through flesh only to reveal stone, a horrific transition from one form to the other as his fragile grip on reality shattered around him._

She had seen Walter on many different levels, but this—this warmed her in a way she was still getting used to.

It was domestic, homey, _comfortable._ This was a man who had accepted himself, accepted his role and identity and was perfectly content to be who and what he was. He was here, in her home— _their_ home—and he actually _felt_ at home.

They locked eyes for a moment, brilliant blue burning into green, and she knew he knew the course her thoughts had taken. The blush spread across his entire face and he ducked his head, humming a tuneless melody in lieu of speaking, hands deftly detaching his mixing bowl from its stand before filling it to the brim with scalding water. “If I don’t clean this as soon as I finish mixing it’s a nightmare later on.”

The non-sequitur caught Barbara by surprise and she laughed, crossing the kitchen to rest her head on his shoulder. “Will there ever be a day you don’t surprise me?” Her hand rose to squeeze his bicep, both of them well aware her words were not only in reference to his clandestine culinary abilities.

Walter grinned, self-consciousness giving way to genuine amusement, the hint of an incisor flashing as his smile took a slightly wicked turn. “I sincerely hope not,” he purred, and pounced, catching her shoulders in his dough-covered hands and drawing her swiftly toward him, slanting his mouth over hers and tugging at her lower lip with unnaturally sharp teeth.

Barbara groaned, hands rising to fist in his thick salt-and-pepper hair, fingers curling at the nape of his neck and burying themselves in the thick strands at the base of his skull. She nipped lightly at his mouth before chasing his tongue, giving as good as she got as he tried to drive her to her knees with the passion infused in their embrace.

One kiss turned into two, which turned into many more, until somehow Barbara was backed up against the wall, Walter’s hands pressing her wrists l beside her head as he pinned her with his hips, mouth trailing a series of fiery kisses along the smooth column of her neck as he braced himself against her, offering the most fleeting moments of blissful friction between them. Her eyes fluttered, opening briefly before shuttering closed, awash in sensation. His tongue flicked out to taste the dip of her collarbone and Barbara _moaned_ , shamelessly pressing herself against him in a futile attempt to ease the burning ache between her thighs.

The oven chose that moment to remind them that it had been pre-heating, emitting a loud, chiming beep that had Barbara jumping and Walter groaning, head falling to rest against her shoulder as he fought to regain his breath.

Her hands slipped free from his gasp, lowering to snake around his neck as she tucked her head beneath his chin, breathing in his unique scent of subtle cologne, old books, and (currently) yeast, a faint trace of something _else—rich nights out in the middle of nowhere, crisp air and open caverns and polished stone—_ lingering on the edge of her nostrils. “I suppose you had best see to the bread,” she breathed, lips tickling his clavicle as she spoke.

He rested his chin on the top of her head, the soft strands of her fiery hair tickling his neck. “Regretfully,” he lamented, trailing one hand through those fine tresses before pulling away. “I still have to clean up the mess I’ve made of your kitchen as well.” He conjured a knife—seemingly from thin air,  _she really needed to ask him how he did that_ —and made a series of four diagonal slashes along each of the two now-risen stick breads before sliding them into the oven.

A slight frown tugged at his mouth as he took in the other mound of dough that had sat forgotten for far too long. “I believe this will have to be discarded,” he sighed, poking it with one long finger and grimacing as it deflated slightly before springing back even larger than before. Exasperated, he lifted the tray on which they sat and slid it onto the bottom rack of the oven. “We’ll have to bake it a bit to keep the yeast from continuing to rise when we dispose of it,” he explained, knowing without having to glance over his shoulder that her eyebrows had risen in silent question.

He slid the oven shut. “And now to clean up,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Barbara’s mouth twitched as she surveyed her near-immaculate kitchen, noting the distinct lack of scattered bowls, dishes, and ingredients that typically accompanied her various cooking endeavors. “It’s certainly a marked improvement from any of _my_ attempts at baking,” she countered.” She snickered, stepping over to peer at him over the tops of her glasses, eyes sliding from his mussed hair down along the thin dusting of flour that coated the chest and rolled-up sleeves of his dark sweater. “In fact, I believe you’ve made more of a mess on _yourself_ than on any of the countertops or the floor.” 

Blushing as her gaze swept over him from head to foot, Walter’s lips turned upward in a small half-smile. “Only as much as is on _you_ ,” he countered, his grin turning evil as he took in the powdery handprints on her shoulders and back.

Barbara whacked her hand against his chest, laughing as a cloud of flour puffed out into the air. “No, no, I believe you still retained the majority of it,” she declared. “We should put you in the with the bread at this rate,” she teased, hand still resting over his heart.

“What, like that witch in the gingerbread house from Hansel and Gretel?” he scoffed, nose in the air. “I think not.”

“Not exactly where my mind would have first taken that Walt—Hansel and Gretel?” Though, she should have known better—the man was forever pulling out obscure and often macabre references to literature and history at the strangest times. She assumed it was from his academic background, as well as the discomfiting reality of his having _lived_ through most of the time periods he referenced.

“What?” he protested, shrugging his shoulders even as his hands scrubbed at some bowls he had set in the sink. “Baking people in an oven, wouldn’t that be where your mind should initially turn? It’s an intriguing story--albeit an annoying opera--with not a small amount of truth to it, and the message is certainly valuable regardless.”

Barbara’s mouth opened and then closed again as she gathered her thoughts. “Okay, first— _truth_ to it? It’s a children’s story—” She gave a sheepish grin and bit her tongue as he turned to give her a “ _Really?”_ look. “Okay, so _trolls_ might be a children’s story too…but gingerbread houses and witches? Really, Walt?”

He raised his soapy hands in the air in a defensive gesture. “Oh, so the woman accepts that trolls are real and is perfectly fine with having a pet Changeling in the house, but mention the possibility of other magical creatures and obviously that is impossible.”

She jabbed him in the side none-to-gently with the dough hook from his mixer and he yelped, spinning to grab the hand with the offending accessory and tug her into his chest, free hand wrapping around her waist to hold her in place against him. “Not nice,” he growled, lowering his head and pressing his nose to hers to meet her eyes with a stern glare.

With a little bit of wriggling, Barbara worked her hand between them and tapped his nose. “Don’t care,” she replied smartly.

His hands rose to grasp her wrists as he bit lightly at her fingers, teeth gripping the offending digits and tongue flicking out to curl around them. Barbara’s knees turned to putty and she sagged against the him, a shudder passing through her. “Walt,” she breathed, “that is _not_ playing fair.” Her head fell back as her eyelids fluttered, giving him the opening he had been waiting for.

“When have I ever cared about playing fair, my dear?” he murmured against her neck, nibbling his way from her collarbone to her ear, drawing the lobe between slightly-sharpened teeth and giving it a light flick with the tip of his tongue.

 Her hands fluttered in his grasp as she struggled to free them from his grasp, desperate to find purchase on his shoulders or chest or hold him _anywhere_ as he continued his assault.

Giving her neck a final nuzzle, Walter pressed a quick kiss to the tip of her nose before suddenly releasing her, spinning back to the sink to his remaining dishes, whistling as he scrubbed them in the soapy water.

Barbara leaned back against the counter, taking deep, steady breaths and willing her heart rate back down to normal. It was patently unfair that he could reduce her to such a state with such a minor series of gestures and he show no evidence of being affected. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at his back, the fabric of his sweater pulling invitingly over leanly-muscled shoulders—shoulders that were rising and falling a bit too rapidly for it to be contributed to anything other than their recent embrace. Had she been anyone _other_ than a medical professional, she might have crossed the line and made a comment about the dough not being the _only_ thing rising—but she was Barbara Lake, MD and humor of such a nature was more for her mind to produce and not necessarily something to share with the rest of the world. Biting back a snort of amusement, she slipped over to stand behind Walter, leaning forward to wrap her arms around his waist, feeling the expansion of his ribs beneath her hands as his breathing quickened. 

“Are you done yet, baker boy?” She baited him shamelessly, hands slipping beneath his sweater to slide up his chest.

Walter froze, hands releasing whatever it was they held in the sink, and slowly turned, Barbara’s grip loosening to allow him to spin in her grasp. “I think I could be persuaded to reach a stopping point,” he returned, eyes darkening as his pupils dilated, “But I believe ‘done’ is the wrong word to apply in this instance.”

Barbara laughed delightedly as he suddenly scooped her up, her arms winding around his neck. “How long until the bread is done?” she asked as he strode out of the kitchen with her, eyes flashing an intense green. As much as she wanted  _this_ she couldn't bear to have all his hard work turn to ash in the oven while they were otherwise...occupied.

He pressed a searing kiss to the corner of her mouth, successfully chasing any ounce of concern from her mind. “Frankly, my dear, I could care less at this point,” he rumbled, and he strode up the stairs to their room, kicking the door closed behind him.

When the timer went off some forty-five minutes later, the bread was saved—but just barely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am such trash for this ship.


	3. Light from Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Walter enjoys some unseasonable sunshine and faces some demons from his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was intended to be an excuse to wax poetic about warm weather with a fluffy backdrop, and instead I give you six-some pages of angst and a slight redemption arc.
> 
> What can I say?
> 
> Thank you SO much to everyone who has left kudos and comments! I'm terrible at consistently replying, but I read every single one and they always make my day--so, thank you!!

The rays of the afternoon sun cast a bright glow against the interior of his eyelids, the accompanying warmth curling tightly about his skin and soothing it with its heated caress. A smattering of varied birdsong sounded in the distance, borne by the light breeze that wafted through the yard. Walter gave a groan of contentment, flinging one arm up to shade his face from the worst of the piercing glare. “This feels _heavenly_ ,” he rumbled, flexing his bare toes and settling more comfortably into his chair, legs sprawled out across an additional seat that he had commandeered as a prop for his feet.

“You’re going to burn if you stay out too long,” Barbara chided from somewhere behind him, _her_ skin shaded by a large-brimmed hat and the overhanging eaves of the house.

He snorted. “After everything I’ve dealt with in life I think I can handle an afternoon outside. Besides, not all of us have your fiery hair and fair complexion.”

She gave a noncommittal “Hmm” and shrugged, frowning back down at the mess of weeds currently occupying her garden space. They had snuck past her defenses sometime between the previous autumn and this early-onset spring, weaving tendrils of snake-like roots over and around any bulbs that might have had a chance of persevering on to the next year. Grimacing, she attacked the mess with her trowel, dirt flying everywhere as she brought the invasive ivies to heel.

Through some meteorological miracle, Arcadia was currently enjoying a remarkable series of spring-like weather at the very cusp of the actual season. Town residents had balked at first, waiting in trepidation for the inevitable freeze and snowfall that was bound to follow such a string of warm weather, but they had passed through weeks one and two of the unseasonably-warm weather and were now solidly into week three with no sign of a freeze in sight.

Walter and Barbara had done as the rest of the town residents and decided to embrace it, hoping desperately that perhaps the heavy snowfall of the New Year had been enough and they had seen the end of one of the coldest winter’s the area had witnessed. Jim was already gone for the weekend, taking off with Claire and Toby to who-knows-where—other than the standard “Be careful, I love you” speech, Barbara had about given up dissuading her son’s various ventures. It was rather counterintuitive to worry about him on a standard, human excursion when she knew he was fully capable of summoning full body armour and a glowing sword with which to defend himself.

Barbara herself had a rare Saturday free from work, and Walter, having finished his grading the night prior with the help of several Advil and a shot of whiskey (high schoolers could apparently not grasp the complexity of cultural relations on the Silk Road) had declared the day to be completely reserved for recreation and relaxation.

Now, they sat outside together, the doctor and the teacher, one covered up to her elbows in soil and the other in a rather uncharacteristic state of undress in a simple black tee shirt and slacks.

Walter breathed out heavily through his nose, body going slack as he expelled the tension of the last few weeks in a single breath. February was always a frustrating month—grey and cold and miserable, students out with every illness imaginable, exams coming and goings, the inevitable student-teacher conferences that he despised as much as his pupils—and now it was finally past. He couldn’t even bring himself to care about his aberrant state—he was simply too at ease to muster the necessary amount of self-awareness.

“You sound mighty relaxed over there.” Barbara’s words were followed by the unmistakable echo of a few choice curses, accompanied by some violent ripping noises and scuffling.

“And you sound as though you are losing your war against the yard,” he replied lightly, refusing to open his eyes.

“It’s— _ugh—_ just these _stupid_ —ah—beds!” she ranted, her words punctuated by a few half-hearted tugs at some particularly stubborn plants. “I have a few months—a few _winter_ months—where I ignore my garden and these things just sweep in and take over!”

Tipping his head back so that it was nearly upside-down against the head of his chair, Walter conceded defeat and cracked an eyelid to peer back at her. Besides being oriented the wrong direction, Barbara was a sight to behold. Her once-white tank was covered in spots of dark soil, the brown earth also staining the knees of her capris. Her gardening gloves had been abandoned atop the cement of the patio, covered in mud and ripped to shreds, and her arms were brown past her wrists. She even had an endearing smudge of earth streaked across her nose.

“Save some soil for the plants, love,” he drawled, mouth tipping upward in a smirk as his eyes fluttered shut and his head returned to a more comfortable position.

He could practically _hear_ her eyes rolling. “Very mature, Walter,” she sniped, standing with a groan and stretching so that her back gave an ungodly crack. He winced with her, hearing the slight whisper of air as she slipped over to the empty chair beside him, all but collapsing into it. 

“I give up,” she declared with gusto. “Let’s just set it all on fire and call it a day.”

He laughed outright at that, eyelids sliding open to reveal amused slivers of green. “I would certainly like to be witness to that event.”

She sighed. “Knowing my luck it would send the house up in flames as well—best not risk it.” She scooted closer to where he reclined, grabbing the hand that rested in his lap and twining her fingers through his. “Aren’t you sick of the sun yet? It’s actually getting rather hot.”

“Hardly,” he murmured, squeezing her hand. “This is a luxury no other troll can enjoy.”

  
She made a noise of confusion, and he sat up slightly, shifting so that his bare feet fell to the warm cement of the patio. 

“Sunlight is deadly to a full troll,” he reminded her, watching as realization dawned in her eyes. She had witnessed a few of Gunmar’s less-fortunate minions meet their demise in such a manner a few months prior, and knew from her fairly frequent interactions with Blinky and Draal that they could only venture outside by the cover of darkness—but knowing something in relation to distant foes and applying it to friendly faces were two different beasts. 

She certainly wasn’t overlooking Walter’s trollish characteristics—far from it, in fact. She had taken to his true form like a moth to a flame, and to his utter confusion and consternation frequently convinced him to forgo his human guise within the safety of their home. But, he would slip so seamlessly between the two that she often forgot that he still bore the restrictions of a true troll while in that form.

Her hand rose to trace the amulet that rested just below his collarbone, fingers cool against his sun-warmed skin. “So only Changelings can—or could, I suppose, since Jim freed the familiars—spend any time out during the day?”

He nodded, his pulse jumping in response to the light touch at his neck. It was rare her skin was cooler than his—his troll physiology was markedly different from that of a human, and a lower pulse rate, different blood conformation, and living-stone skin all contributed to a body temperature at least fifteen degrees lower than that of a typical human. Today, though, warmed by the sun as he was, her (dirt-stained) hands were a breath of fresh air against his flushed skin. 

“I have spent very little time outside simply for the sake of _being_ outside,” he said, turning to face her in truth, hand rising to press hers against his heart. “A Changeling’s ability to travel between worlds is what made us so essential to Gunmar, what set us apart from “true” trolls and kept us just this side of complete ostracization. So, most of my ‘outside’ time was simply another part of the mission—whatever I had to do that day to accomplish my goals.”

He didn’t add that often times those missions were search-and-destroy, that the best time to catch a troll off-guard was in the daytime, that Changelings were only ever good for dirty jobs and lies and deceit. His hand formed into a fist around hers, still gentle in its hold if unyielding in its grasp, and Barbara could feel the slight tremors that passed through him with the unwanted torrent of memories.

Mouth twisting into a grimace, he scowled down at the patio, eyes blinking, face stern. His other hand clenched and unclenched around the arm of his chair, the metal starting to warp under the strength of his grip. He had been a soldier, true, had fought and killed and done monstrous things in the name of his general—but he had done it willingly, knowingly, and even  _gleefully_ at times.

“I don’t—” his voice broke and he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, his composure slipping, giving way to an onslaught of long-repressed memories. He had thought himself beyond this, thought he had addressed the worst of his demons in the earlier months of their rekindled relationship. After their initial reunion, it had taken him weeks to reach out to Barbara in any manner other than a brief embrace—he had felt too repugnant, too stained and sullied by the acts of his past life. Even now, today, here in the bright sunlight on a warm day with the woman he loved more than anything he had ever known—he was a monster. He had always _been_ a monster and would continue to be so.

Barbara watched the emotions play across his normally stoic face, her heart contracting at the torment and self-loathing that she watched ripple through his eyes, contorting his features and twisted his mouth into a ferocious grimace. He worked so hard to be a new man—to be the man he had always had the potential to _be_ —but he was still haunted by all his past deeds. All the acts he had performed in his role as the leader of the Changeling forces still followed him, hovering just behind him even on the best of days, a ghastly specter stained with sorrow.

She was not ignorant—she knew full and well that he had performed hideous acts well beyond the scope of her imagination. There was blood on his hands, hundreds of years of distasteful acts buried in shallow graves on either side of the path he trod.

 But—

 —there was also _good_ in him as well. She had seen it firsthand, had seen him fighting with and for her son, seen him intercept a deadly attack meant for Jim. She had seen it in the way he regarded the kids at the school when he thought no one was looking—like they were actually people, like they mattered and had potential and _meant_ something. She saw it in him every day when she woke up beside him, saw his sleep-mussed hair and brilliant eyes blinking away the last dredges of Morpheus’s call and brimming with utter adoration.

She felt it when he held her after a long day at work, witnessed it when he made her dinner or when she caught him dancing around the house with the vacuum cleaner in one hand and a rapier in the other, fencing at imaginary opponents as he cleaned.

“Walt…” Gently, she extracted her hand from his clenching grip, took both of his in her own and grasped them firmly, thumbs stroking along his skin, heedless of the dirt that flaked off of her soil-stained skin. “Walt, it’s okay,” she said earnestly, leaning in until he was forced to look up and meet her concerned blue eyes. “I didn’t mean to bring up anything that would make you uncomfortable.”

He gave a self-deprecating laugh and shook his head. “It was not you, Barbara, not in the least. I have simply too many negative memories—they eclipse even the bright moments I’ve had with you. I can be a better person now, perhaps, but that doesn’t erase the monster I was in the past. I have never been a _good_ man—you make me wish I had been, and I certainly try now and _enjoy_ doing so, but—”

Was it possible to feel so cold on so warm a day? Walter felt a shudder rip through him, a wave of revulsion and horrible, gripping guilt slamming through him and pinning him in place, his entire body wracked with tremors.

Light pressure at the juncture of their hands made him start, a gentle tug that had him rising from his seat and mindlessly following Barbara as she backed slowly into the cool kitchen, eyes fixed on his face.  Her hands rose to his shoulders and she guided him down into a chair at the table. “Deep breaths, love,” she said, kneeling beside him, feeling the rise and fall of his shoulders as he obeyed.  

“Now, I’m going to get you some tea, and you’re just going to sit here and breathe, alright?”

Somehow Walter found it in himself to nod, eyes shuttered, and she rose and crossed to the stove, filling the kettle with water and setting the burner to high. Tea was about the only thing she’d found she could manage in the kitchen, and their recent months together had gotten her to the point where she could prepare it to his tastes with fairly regular consistency.

She left the water heating and returned to the table, pulling out a chair of her own and settling into it. Though he’d had several flashbacks over the course of the last several months, Walter had never been pulled so deeply into his recollections and self-flagellation that he didn’t want to return. Eyes swimming with empathy, Barbara leaned in close, carding her hands through his thick salt-and-pepper hair.

Wordlessly, Walter leaned forward and rested his forehead against her shoulder, taking in a deep, shaking breath.

Her hands came to rest at the base of his head, cradling him to her and simply holding him, her touch offering all of the tenderness and compassion and acceptance that could not be put to words.

They sat like that for a long while, until the shrill whistle of the kettle had Barbara jumping in her seat, head rearing back like a startled deer. “Shit,” she swore quietly, “I forgot.” She pressed a gentle kiss to Walter’s temple and withdrew, quickly pouring a cup of tea for each of them (cream and a fair amount of sugar for her, just a hint of honey in his). She pressed the cup into his hands, setting her own on the table.

“I apologize, Barbara,” he said, staring down at the ceramic cup he held, so delicate between his lean hands, hands that had the power to crush and kill, hands that could craft and create and hold herwith the gentlest of touches. “I never should have—” 

She cut him off abruptly, pressing two fingers to his lips with a stern frown. “ _Yes_ you most certainly should have,” she declared. “You should feel guilty, you should feel remorse, you should feel regret and horror and disgust. You should _also,”_ she continued, as he bowed his head in resignation, “be allowed to express that and let it work through you. It’s not healthy to bottle things up for too long,” she said with a hollow laugh. “Heaven knows I’ve had experience in that department.”

With a jolt he remembered that she knew that agony and anxiety well from the months following her ex-husband’s sudden departure from her life and the resulting void of doubt and self-loathing that followed. That awareness brought him back to himself, the numb buzz that had filled his mind receding with the ebb of his anxiety.

Her fingers curled around his chin, tilting his head up so that she could stare fiercely into his eyes. “Never _ever_ apologize for staying here, for staying human, for starting over. You _are_ a good man, Walter, whether you believe it or not.” Her lips turned up in a sad little smile. “One day I hope you can see that for yourself.”

Words failed him. Setting his tea beside her untouched cup on the table, he curled on hand around the wrist at his chin, fingers trailing along her slim wrist as he turned his cheek into her palm. “What did I do to deserve you?” he asked, breath tickling her skin.

Barbara brought her other hand up to frame his other cheek, holding his head steady as she leaned in to draw her lips across his. It was the sweetest touch, just the barest brush of skin. “You are yourself,” she murmured, thumbs brushing from his nose to his cheekbones in a soothing caress. “And that’s _more_ than enough.”

A dam broke in Walter and he surged forward, closing the distance between them as he caught her mouth, lips sliding across hers in desperation, trying to convey all of the emotions that filled him. They burned him from the inside out, bursting outward through the cracks she had beaten in his armor, seeping outward and coiling around them both.

Her hands slid down his neck and behind his back, pressing him tightly to her. She whimpered as he caught her bottom lip between his teeth, driving his tongue into her mouth, twining it about hers and seeking out every soft, hidden crevice in her mouth. 

Large hands caught her behind her head and waist, pulling her into his lap and against his chest, pressing her to him as he poured his soul into their embrace. She could taste the sharp tang of blood from where he had bitten his lip earlier, a metallic reminder of his lingering doubts.

His mouth slid from her lips to her neck, pressing a series of kisses along the line of her pulse, trailing down to the hollow of her neck. "I love you," he murmured against her neck, thumbs drawing circles over her hip bones. He could feel her pulse jump beneath his lips, and gave a small smile, bringing his head up to rest against hers, cheek-to-cheek as they both fought to slow their racing pulses and calm their rapid breaths. 

Barbara tucked her head beneath his chin, inhaling his spiced, earthy scent. "I love you too," she replied into his neck, head rising and falling with his deep breaths. There would be days where their sun would be eclipsed by shadow, but like every true eclipse there could only light to follow.  The silence that settled across the kitchen as they sat together cradled in each other's arms was a comfortable one, heavy with emotion but lacking the tension from before. There were more words to be said, but they could wait for a different day, one when they were less raw, when he was less exposed. For now, they sat together, Walter drawing as much comfort from having Barbara in his arms as she was from being in his, both real and solid and there in a way no other person could be. Right here, right now, they had reached a tentative peace between his past, present, and future, and together they could take it by storm-- light days or dark.


	4. Damply Does It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of a rather unexpected type of battle....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are with another chapter! This idea came upon me spontaneously and out of the blue, so naturally I ran with it. Comments and kudos are always welcome! 
> 
> Cheers!

The front door opened and closed with a quiet _thunk_ , settling back into its frame without the usual squeak that typically announced an arrival—someone was trying very intently to enter without drawing attention to themselves. Barbara shut the door of the oven (it was much easier to make dinner when it was simply a meatloaf Jim had already made and set in the refrigerator to be baked that night) and turned to the foyer with furrowed brows. She hadn’t been expecting Jim _or_ Walter this early in the afternoon: the high school was hosting its annual “field day”, and the fierce undercurrent of competition simmering in the air at breakfast that morning had left her slightly concerned for the wellbeing of the rest of the student body and faculty.

Really, she had gone through her day more than halfway expecting to receive a call from the school to extract either or of her men from the premises. But, the day passed without event, and Barbara had returned home to a quiet house, anticipating a quiet afternoon and evening until her troops returned home.

She _certainly_ did not expect one Walter Strickler to come creeping into the house, drenched head to toe and looking utterly put-upon. “Don’t—just don’t,” he commanded, throwing up a hand to forestall any questions or teasing remarks.

The effect of his grand gesture was ruined entirely as his sodden coat sleeve sent a steady trickle of water trailing to the floor, the _drip drip drip_ making Barbara’s eyes glow with mirth and a hand rise to her mouth to cover a broad smile.

“Looks like _somebody_ had an interesting day,” she sang, leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe of the kitchen and quirking an eyebrow.

He harrumphed, toeing off his ruined shoes and sloshing his way across the foyer, socks squelching against the wooden floor. “That depends entirely on your definition of interesting,” he scowled, stooping to seize the offending articles and yank them off his feet. “I, for one, would label the day _infuriating—_ “

As he valiantly struggled with his remaining sock, Barbara took pity on him and stepped over to the linen closet, retrieving a few towels. Silently, she passed him two, taking the third to the door and dropping it unceremoniously on the floor, scooting it across the room to mop up the trail of water left in his wake.

“So,” and there was that infuriating eyebrow again, “dunk tank or water balloons?”

Walter stared at her, floored. “What?” he asked.

Barbara laughed, a light, musical sound that rang through the house. “Well, the evidence is against you, love,” she pointed out. “You went to a field day with _high schoolers_. It was either a dunk tank, a water balloon toss in which someone decided to use beach balls, or you simply had a last-minute, spontaneous yen to submerge yourself in the neighbor’s pool on the way home.” Her lips twitched. “As Mr. Whitaker’s pool has been _yellow_ for the better half of the last month, I sincerely hope it is one of the first two.”

Walter gave a derisive sniff, shrugging out of his jacket and scrunching out of his sweater. He tossed the soaked clothing onto the towel on the floor and wrapped one of the ones he held around his shoulders, rubbing off as much of the excess water as he could.

“Water balloons,” he finally conceded grumpily some minutes later, once his skin had been toweled and his pants discarded to join his upper vestments. He was left in the entirely undignified position of standing in the entry way of the house in nothing but a pair of soaking wet boxers, with a towel wrapped snugly around his waist and neck.

“A water balloon _war_ , perhaps?” she prompted, scooping up the load of discarded clothing within the (now-saturated) towel, striding toward the back of the house to deposit her entire armful into the waiting maw of the dryer.

He muttered something, shaking his head like a wet dog and sending residual water flying.

“What was that?” she called, and he could hear the rumble of the great metal monstrosity starting up, drowning out the sarcastic stinger he was certain she had added to her sentence.

“I said, yes, it was—something reminiscent of the Mongolian hordes of Genghis Khan, if I had to pick a reference point.” He shuddered, lips pursed. “It would seem that children ages thirteen through eighteen are not satisfied to have an entire day of no classwork dedicated solely to playing various inane outdoor games. No, they must have carnage, and warfare, and—“ His brows drew together in a thunderous scowl.

Hiding a smile, Barbara slung an arm around the damp towel at his shoulders, leaning into his side. “Come on, you,” she said, “a hot shower will help with that grumpiness.”

He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, letting her drag him along the hallway to the stairs.

Barbara’s eyes narrowed. “Or you can continue to sit here and drip on my hardwood and carpet and feel sorry for yourself,” she said, exasperated by his grim mood. “Catch a cold, see if I care.”

His eyes softened, losing some of the ire that had darkened their usual emerald to a dark hunter shade. “No, I’m sorry,” he apologized, climbing the first few steps to reach her side. “It wasn’t….unenjoyable today.” His mouth twisted, as though the admission pained him, and some of Barbara’s earlier amusement returned. He’d had fun, the smarmy bastard, and he knew it—getting him to _admit_ it, though, was like pulling teeth.

Grinning, she trailed a hand up his bared torso, fingers sliding against the slick wet skin of his chest and sending a line of goosebumps erupting in their wake. “You,” she said, punctuating her words with a series of sharp taps to his collarbone, “are too ornery for your own good.”

He smirked at her, eyes smoldering, earlier ire forgotten as he bore down on her, pressing her back into the banister as he crowded her against the edge of the narrow stairs. “And you love me for it.” His voice was low, practically a purr, so deep and rich that it should be illegal for the way it made heat curl down her spine.

Barbara managed a nod and a gulping, breathy yes, too taken over by lust to be embarrassed by the abrupt departure of her grasp of the English language.

Naturally, at that moment, the front door swung open with a loud _bang_ and three teenagers of varying degrees of dampness trooped into the foyer.

Barbara and Walter sprang apart as if stung, Barbara’s back ramming painfully into the railing and Walter’s head knocking back into the wall, picture frames rattling on their hangers. Their eyes met for a brief moment of complete, abject _alarm_ before panic melted into resigned discomfiture, and they simultaneously adopted twin airs of nonchalance.

“Mom?” The surprise on Jim’s face was rapidly melting into an expression of dawning horror as he took in the red blush spreading rapidly across his mother’s face and the majority of Strickler’s (very exposed) torso and neck.

“Mr. Strickler??” Claire’s voice rose two octaves in as many words, her eyes as wide as they jumped from bare feet to _towel_ to his still-wet hair.

“My _eyes!!_ My innocent _eyes!_ ” Toby, ever one for dramatics, flailed about, slapping his hands in front of his face and dancing around next to his friends, one finger spread slightly so he could peep out through his makeshift blindfold.

“I, ah—” For once, Walter was at a loss for words, now beet red to the tips of his ears.

“Mom, c’m _on!_ ” Jim all but wailed the words, dancing agitatedly in place as he frowned up at the pair. “You promised this would stop happening!” He ran a hand through his hair, blinking rapidly as though he could burn away the image of his history-teacher-turned-adversary-turned-ally clad only in a damp towel and _making out_ with his mother on the stairs.

A bright, chiming laugh rang through the house and everyone turned to stare at Claire, clapped a hand over mouth, her shoulders shaking with barely-restrained giggles. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, meeting Barbara’s eyes with a helpless grin, “It’s just so—”

“Awkward,” Jim finished decisively, grabbing Claire’s wrist and Toby’s shirt and all but dragging them out of the house. “When I said ‘Let’s see how Strickler takes his water balloons’ this was _not_ the end result I had in mind. We’re leaving. Mom, I’ll see you eventually.” He dragged his friends from the house, pulling the door closed decisively behind him.

Barbara and Walter exchanged a stunned look. “Well,” Barbara finally said, blinking slowly, “I should feel worse than I do about that, but…something tells me he might have been one of the main reasons you came home the way you did.”

Walter’s blank look of astonishment slid into a self-satisfied smile, and he lazily wrapped his arms around her neck, twining the fingers of one hand through her red hair. “You would be correct,” he murmured, brushing his nose against hers. “The _ringleader_ , I would even say.”

Pressing a quick kiss to the tip of his nose, Barbara laughed brightly. “Then I feel no guilt,” she declared, running the tips of her fingers lightly down his sides, grinning wickedly as his skin twitched beneath hands. “He knows he is not the only one in the house anymore.”

Eyes narrowing, Walter dipped his head down and caught her lips in a quick kiss that was no less intense for its brevity. “Even so, I _am_ rather wanting that shower now—after all, it was so temptingly offered.” He scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, giving her an impish smile as she beat halfheartedly against his back, the hint of an ivory fang gleaming behind his lip as he rushed up the stairs. “I may have lost the battle against your young heathen and his troops, but the war is still on—and _this_ is a confrontation I’ve been looking forward to all day.”

Barbara got her revenge as she made the most of her new position and scratched lightly at his lower back, twisting her head to suck lightly at his pulse point, delighting in the rapid beat of it beneath her lips. She loved that he was free with her, that he could be himself and be so passionate and relaxed. He had come so far from the reserved, withdrawn man he had been before—still stoic, still sarcastic and staid, but now content with himself and his place in the world.

And, at the moment, _she_ was quite content to allow herself to be whisked through the open bedroom door and into the bathroom they shared. Her lips quirked as she was placed gently on the bathmat, her transport spinning to turn the tap on, sending a jet of hot water spraying out from the shower head.

Just one more thing…

“Walt,” she murmured, catching his hand and drawing him back to her, nibbling a trail up his jawline and scratching lightly at the base of his spine.

“Mmm?” he plucked halfheartedly at her top, finally sliding the thin garment up and over her head and running his hands along the newly-exposed skin, palms spanning her waist as they settled on her hips.

She tilted her head back to meet his gaze, blue eyes boring into green. “Change for me?” 

Coherent thought was lost as the skin beneath her hands rippled and _shifted_ , her body aflame even as it was surrounded by cool stone, the bright glow of his eyes as they slid from brilliant green to gold to red was all answer she needed.


	5. At the Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a duo of dorks gets a ride home from their designated driver.

“Walt?” The words were a light question, innocently posed and unassuming, their light tenor floating through the cool spring evening to brush across his waiting ear. The night air was cool but not cold, holding the scent and promise of a warm spring day upon the sunrise. A golden moon rose on the eastern horizon, full and vibrant and eschewing luminous tendrils of pale light. Noise from the restaurant behind them was muted, dimmed by walls and the double doors that swung open and closed to emit the next set of patrons to the warmly-lit room beyond.“Hmm?” he murmured in reply, his arm snaking out to curl around her shoulder and tug her into his side.

“Your eyes are _so_ very green.” The comment was accompanied by the lightest of touches against his temple, gentle fingers tracing the curve of his heavy brow to follow the crow’s eyes carved by years of worry and a few faint moments of mirth.

He hummed in amusement, the non-sequitur taking them by surprise. “Yes, they are,” he replied, smiling slightly as he dipped his head to brush a kiss across her temple.

Barbara giggled and burrowed into his side, her arms wrapping around his waist as her head nestled into the neck of his worn jacket. “I had a wonderful time,” she murmured into his neck, hand skimming up his back to card though his thick salt-and-pepper hair, fingers curling around the white strands at his nape.

Walter inhaled through his nose, pressing a kiss to her temple as his eyes fluttered shut, savoring the peace of the moment. “As did I.”

The loud, raucous blare of a car horn cut through the otherwise-silent evening, and the golden glare of headlights flashed as a sedan rolled to a stop alongside the curb. Barbara and Walter exchanged amused glances as the passenger window slowly rolled down, an exasperated teenaged face coming into view as the glass receded. “You rang?” Jim’s voice was droll, his eyes dancing behind his exasperated mien.

Walter snickered. “I believe we are in need of a ride, young sir,” he entreated, raising his free hand to his chest in a silent plea. “It would seem the fair lady—”

“— _and_ her gentleman friend,” Barbara interjected, trying and failing abysmally to hide an absurdly fond smile.

“—and her gentleman friend,” Walter amended, teeth flashing in a rare smile, ”have perhaps overdone it slightly in their consumption of alcoholic beverages at dinner this evening and are in need of a ride home.”

Jim smirked, knowing he had enough dirt from this night out to last him _weeks_ upon the return of their more sober selves. “I think I can handle that,” he drawled, fingers tracing the worn leather of the steering wheel. “What else is a son with a learner’s permit good for?”

Barbara’s mouth opened—perhaps to counteract such a black-and-white statement—and then closed, her shoulders rising in a resigned shrug. “I’m sure I should have a more significant counter-argument,” she said to the world at large, “but quite frankly I have a bottle-and-some of wine in me and I’m just happy you can drive right now, Jim.”

The teen grinned broadly, leaning over to swing open the passenger door. “Only the best for you, Mom,” he said, the grandiose statement offset by the age of the beaten-up sedan and the worn leather interior. He looked at Walter and smirked. “Back door’s open.”

The older man rolled his eyes, giving a good-natured huff as he guided Barbara into the front seat before settling himself in the back. “I’ll have you know that a Changeling’s constitution is _much_ better than that of a typical mortal human,” he muttered, snapping his seatbelt into place.

“Which is why you had _three_ bottles of wine, right love?” Barbara teased, merciless in her recitation of the night’s events.

Jim grinned outright at that. “I thought you were just telling me the other day _not_ to drink, Strickler.” The jibe came easily, borne of months of familiarity and cohabitation following their reconciliation after Gunmar’s defeat and his minions' banishment.

“ _You,_ yes,” the other man said pointedly. “You’re only sixteen, Young Atlas, and Trollhunter or not alcohol is only legal for humans who are of a certain age."

“Yeah yeah yeah,” the teenager drew his brows together in a good-natured scowl, then immediately brightened. “Mom lets me have a beer every now and then,” he said, smirking.

“Barbara!” Walter gasped, feigning surprise, hand going to his heart. “How could you? Such a young, impressionable child—you should be ashamed.”

Checking the rearview mirror with a devious smirk, Jim shifted the car into drive and eased out from the curb, setting a steady pace along the nearly-deserted street. “Like you haven’t let me try your scotch every now and then,” he replied, hands steady on the wheel despite his mischievous glance to the backseat, where Walter was doing his best to maintain an innocent manner. 

“Walter!” Barbara gasped in perfect imitation of his previous horror, clasping her hands to her breast. “This is my son! How could you?”

Their eyes met in the rearview mirror for a brief moment before their stoicism failed and they both dissolved into peals of laughter.

“Why does everything about this situation feel wrong?” Jim lamented, flicking his left blinker on and steering them into a smooth turn. His eyes held no hint of exasperation as he regarded his mother and her strange-but-fitting choice of paramour, both of them well beyond this side of tipsy. Barbara’s hands were wrapped around her sides, her narrow frame wracked with laughter; in the back, Walter was not much better, his shoulders shaking with ill-repressed mirth.

Gripe though he might, however, it was only in show—his mother had never been happier, and he had always had an unusually strong inclination toward Walter as a father-figure (once they got beyond the whole he’s-a-Changeling and trying-to-kill-or-at-least-maim-one-another-with-silverware deal). Walter had stepped in where Jim—and Barbara—had most needed him, and Jim in turn had assumed the slightly exhausting task of minding two adults who were for the first time in their lives completely and hopelessly in love.

He’d like to say it made him ill, especially on those evenings when he arrived home unexpectedly early and caught the two of them in a particularly _passionate_ embrace, but...

...he would be absolutely and completely lying if some part of him—the part that adored his mother and would make any sacrifice in her name—wasn’t elated to catch her necking like a teenager, red-faced and out of breath and eyes aflame with a mortifying mixture of lust and love and utter embarrassment.

Walter made his mother human, made her live again in a way he hadn’t seen for years and years since he was far too young to understand the finer complexities of human emotion. Jim (though he was a teenaged male and would _never_ confess to it) loved the older man for it, the same way he loved how Walter treated him as an equal and never spared him the less-pleasant details in favor of “sparing his innocence” or some other such nonsense.

“This is what I get for leaving the two of you alone for a night out,” Jim commiserated, shaking his head as he watched Barbara reach a hand behind her, the motion accepted by Walter as he tenderly grasped the proffered appendage between both of his. “You decide to relive the glory days and go and get _drunk_ on me.” He made a tsk-ing noise between his teeth, smoothing his expression to one of disdain as he tried to hide the fond exasperation he held for his two adults.

Turning his nose up, Walter leveled his most disdainful glare at the youth seated (god help them all) in the driver’s seat of the car. “We are _not_ drunk,” he protested. Barbara giggled, and his lips twitched. “Well, _I_ am not drunk.”

Fiery hair flared as she whipped around to glare back at him. “I’m not drunk either!” she objected.

Seeing Walter’s mouth open as if to reply and having had fourteen years’ more experience with his mother’s moods, Jim interjected, “Let’s just settle on happily tipsy, yeah?” he requested. He eased up on the gas, turning them into the driveway and settling the car into park. “Ride’s over, lovebirds.” Jim turned the key and pulled out of the ignition, the bright lights that flooded the cab making Barbara and Walter blink. “Who’s paying the fare?”

Walter smirked. “It’ll be deducted from the damages you owe us from the living room lampshade incident.” His eyebrow rose in challenge.

“What?” Jim protested, jumping out of the car and slamming his door shut. “But that was an accident!” 

Walter exited the vehicle much more elegantly, his rapid Changeling metabolism having apparently burned through the worst of his inebriation. He extended a gallant arm to Barbara, guiding her from the car and into his arms. “Accident or not, the damages were…pronounced.”

Barbara’s hand fluttered out to smack the back of Walter’s head. “Like you didn’t contribute to that scene,” she chastised, cocking her head in challenge, a flutter going through her stomach as his eyes flashed red and he let the tip of an incisor show.

A sharp beep from the car cut through whatever retort (and potential shape change) was budding, making both Walter and Barbara start in surprise. Jim shook his head and unlocked the front door. "Get in the house before I have to explain things to the neighbors again," he directed, wondering when exactly he had assumed responsibility for his two guardians. "I had one hell of a time telling Mrs. Morgan we were experimenting with life-size garden statues the last time you decided to get freaky after dark."

"We--it wasn't--we were  _not_ getting  _freaky,"_ Barbara exclaimed, her face as red as her hair as she allowed Walter to guide her up the front steps, his hand at the small of her back.

"Yet," her partner in crime muttered for her ears only, causing her to flush even more fiercely than before. 

"Whatever," Jim said, clearly not believing a word of it. He tossed the keys on the counter. "I'm going to bed--it's after eleven and Tobes and I were heading out early to get over to Trollmarket." He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it haphazardly on the banister. "Catch you lovebirds sometime tomorrow."

They watching him disappear upstairs with matching expressions of bemusement. 

"When did he--" Barbara began.

"--grow up on us?" Walter answered. "Frankly my dear, I have no idea."

She leaned forward to press a quick kiss to his lips. "Isn't it supposed to be that you don't give a damn?" she teased.

He scooped her up in a full-bodied hug, torsos pressing tightly together. "It is," he conceded lowly, voice a gentle rumble against her skin, "but that would be a blatant and utter lie." He tried and fail to stifle a tender smile as she bit back an ill-suppressed yawn. "Let's go to bed, love." He smirked. "After all, tomorrow is another day."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes and mis-quotes stolen shamelessly from Gone with the Wind.
> 
> I had a delightful time writing this--went over to my mom's for the holiday and we knocked off a bottle or two of wine. Some warm sun and a nice buzz does wonders for the writers block (although I'll go ahead and throw it out there that it definitely requires a bit more proofreading than normal).


	6. Fun with Fencing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere in the midst of a mid-morning sword fight, Walter and Jim each decide that the other isn't so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little scene kept dancing through my head so I put it to paper and came out with...this. No Barbara except at the end, but I love to play with Jim and Walter sometimes, too. Thank you all so much for the kudos and comments--they are wonderful encouragement.

The tip of the sword pressed none-too-gently into the small of Walter’s back, its finely-honed point cold against his back through the hole it had torn in his shirt. His mouth turned up into a hard smile. “Still so uneasy, young Atlas,” he said evenly, hands steady as they continued their course in loading the washing machine and setting the rinse cycle. 

“I don’t trust you,” Jim hissed, giving the sword a slight twist and adding just a bit more pressure to the lethal steel in his grip. His blue eyes were electric in the bright light of the morning that streamed through the gaps in the blinds of the laundry room window. Despite the sword at his back, Walter could not manage to repress an amused snicker--clad as he was in only boxers and a ratty tee shirt, Jim did not necessarily cut a very threatening figure.

But, the hand that held the sword was steady, grip firm and unyielding, and Jim's eyes held enough steel to tell _any_ fighter that this young man could hold his own in a conflict.

Slowly, Walter turned in place, hands held placatingly in front of him as he rotated to face the young Trollhunter. He had been expecting this ever since he had somehow become a rather permanent fixture in the Lake household and the fervor of Gunmar’s defeat had died away. Not that he could _blame_ young Jim, either—he had certainly committed his fair share of atrocities against his former nemesis and friends to have to work _hard_ to earn back any modicum of trust.

“I don’t blame you,” he said coolly. “But, I will caution you that it is rather unwise to surprise a man weaned on violence with a sword to the back.” The fact that the shirt now bearing a remarkably impressive rip was one of his favorites didn’t put a positive spin on things, either. Green eyes narrowed, bright in the morning sun. “You would do well to be a little less…aggressive in your approach.”

Jim balked. “Is that a threat?” he exclaimed, free hand flying to his side for an amulet in a pocket that was not there.

Walter sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Teenagers. They save the world and fight untold numbers of bloodthirsty enemies and suddenly they think they know the inner workings of the world. “No,” he refuted, “rather a bit of well-intended advice. It has not been my habit to respond so favorably to such a sudden surprise.”

Frowning, Jim narrowed his eyes at his former enemy and current home invader. “It _sounds_ like a threat.”

Exasperated, the older man threw his hands up in the air. “Fine, yes, consider it a threat then! Don’t poke me in the back with a sword at nine in the morning on the first Saturday in months that hasn’t involved the tedious grading of high school history papers, running from multiple parties trying to kill me, or mothering a pack of displaced trolls!” He glared at the teenager in front of him. “I am _trying_ to do some laundry and help your mother with some of the chores so she can, for once, sleep in.”

“We don’t _need_ your help,” Jim declared, turning the blade slightly and hitting the flat against Walter’s side to punctuate his statement.

Walter had reached the limit of his patience. “I am only back through Barbara’s invitation,” he snapped, bringing a blade into his hand as if by magic with a single, elegant flick of his wrist. He bared his teeth. “She had to argue with me for a solid _week_ to get me to even _consider_ setting foot in your house again.” 

Jim gaped. “She—what?” Then he frowned and shook off his confusion. “No, it doesn’t matter. You worked for _them._ You tried to _kill_ me—multiple times. You _used_ her!” Had he been looking at Walter properly, rather than glaring at the man’s chest, he would have seen the flicker of discomfort that across the other man’s face, seen his fingers tighten on his knife and his mouth thin and a flash of deep remorse flare in his green eyes.

“I did,” Walter growled, his face twisting as his knife snapped forward to knock Jim’s sword away. “I won’t say that I derived any pleasure from it, but I did, and knowingly.” 

The logical part of Jim knew that he was overreacting, that Walter had begun to change even before he had severed his bond with Barbara and given Jim Gunmar’s eye. He had seen Walter come _back,_ at great risk to his life, to atone for his deeds and offer assistance and counsel with no expectation of forgiveness from either of the two Lakes. Hell, the man had saved his life by taking a slice from a _sword_ in the final battle.

But, Jim was hurting. Jim was tired, and worn down, and frayed at the edges from months of figuring out who he was, of learning to be the Trollhunter and of _being_ the Trollhunter. Jim had already seen one father walk out of his life, and then had experienced a second, gut-wrenching disillusionment when Walter had turned out to be a Changeling, shifting from a potential confidant to one of the enemies and leaving yet another failed male relationship in his wake. 

Having Walter back now was asking too much of the teen, taunting him with a hint of the normalcy he could have had before the existence of the amulet had irrevocably altered his reality. It was so eerily _domestic_ to have him here in the house, making dinner and cleaning the bathrooms and _doing laundry_. Jim could see it becoming routine, could easily allow the man back in and settle into some strange homey pattern—but he couldn’t allow that, couldn’t let himself forget everything that Walter had done.

“Argh!” The teen swung his sword down in a choppy, overhand cut, the sharp clang of meeting steel reverberating through the small room as Walter’s arm jerked up to parry the blow. “Just stop!” Jim commanded, resentment contorting his face into a fierce grimace. “Stop doing laundry, stop being useful, stop making me want to trust you!” He leapt back out of the doorway as Walter jerked forward in a swift stab, the knife sailing uselessly through the air as the man’s momentum propelled him past Jim into the hallway.

Walter’s green eyes were aflame. “You think it’s easy for me, child?” he snarled. “You think turning my back on seven _centuries_ of habit and training is a walk in the park? I helped you destroy my kind when we brought down Gunmar—I turned my back on everything I had ever known in that effort.” Effortlessly, he conjured another knife and flung it at his opponent, the aim true but the intent absent. 

Jim easily dodged the missile, swinging at Walter with a sloppy chopping motion. “Woe is you,” the young man lamented, rolling his eyes and frowning as Walter slid out of the way of his attack, brushing a table in his haste and sending the lamp atop it crashing to the floor.

“Shit,” Walter glared at the lamp as though it held the weight of all his problems. “I haven’t done – this – ever,” he told Jim, encompassing the entirety of the house and his current lifestyle in the scope of his gesture. “I have never had the opportunity to care, the chance to be accepted for who and what I am and have done.” He ran at Jim, a knife in each hand, blows glancing off of the blade the boy quickly raised in defense. “You have no idea how much I value what Barbara has offered me.” And here he paused with the flow of their battle, a most curious expression flashing across his face. His blades were pressed against Jim’s, both of their arms shaking with the force of their mutual attack, Walter’s slightly greater height and extra muscle giving him a slight edge against his much younger opponent. “For that matter, how much I value what _you_ offer me, young Atlas.”

Gaping, Jim cocked his head, surprised despite himself. “I haven’t offered you _anything,_ ” he protested, jumping back into the living room and taking a defensive stance behind the couch, eyes warily tracking Walter as he followed.

“On the contrary,” Walter objected, coming in with a low blow at Jim’s knees, “You have offered me everything. You think it was pure chance that I decided to change my ways? You were something more to me even _prior_ to becoming the Trollhunter, Jim.” A grimace of pain flitted across his face as Jim scored a hit, drawing a shallow line from shoulder to elbow along his bicep. “Ngh…nice hit, Young Atlas.” A look of what Jim would almost call _pride_ flared in Walter's eyes.

“Why me??” Jim asked, brushing off the compliment and sending a flurry of blows raining down on Walter, unyielding in his barrage.

Walter effortlessly dodged the onslaught of attacks, evading and parrying the blitz of attacks with an ease that belied the slight burn of fatigue that was beginning to set in. “Because you have always been special,” he replied, breath coming slightly faster than before. “You are bright and questioning and have had to deal with so much _more_ than most your age—” he held up a hand, forestalling Jim’s obvious comment, “—even prior to becoming the Trollhunter.” They both knew he referenced James Lake, Sr. through his lack of words. Walter quirked an eyebrow. “And, later, of course, it certainly didn’t hurt that your mother is without a doubt the most wonderful human being I’ve ever had the pleasure to get to know.”

Jim looked like he wanted to object, then gave a resigned half-shrug and lowered his sword slightly. “I can’t argue with that last, although it’s still _majorly_ creepy to hear you say it.” He passed a hand through his hair, grimacing slightly at the sweat that came off of his shaggy mane. His expression firmed back into one of grim resolve. “You still will not succeed,” he declared, darting into the kitchen and flipping onto the table, brandishing his weapon at his adversary.

“At what?” the Changeling snapped, exasperated. “I’m not exactly aspiring for Changeling domination anymore—I just want to do my laundry in peace and enjoy my two mornings each week where I do _not_ get snarked at by adolescents.” He slashed at Jim’s legs, prompting the boy to jump to the floor. “You need to calm down,” Walter continued, punctuating his statement with two expertly-thrown knives that caught Jim’s shirt simultaneously, pinning him to the kitchen wall.

Wrenching himself free, the teen grinned. “I will,” he agreed, “now that you’re weaponless.”

Walter rolled his eyes and popped open the silverware drawer, fishing around before surfacing with a ladle and a pair of kitchen tongs. “A ha?” He brandished the makeshift weapons, mouth quirking upward in an ironic grin.

Jim laughed despite himself, swinging downward with a ferocious blow that had Walter scrambling to throw up the ladle to catch it. “You look ridiculous,” he observed, snickering.

Shrugging, Walter flung the ladle at the teen’s head, the missile flying far past its mark to slam into the molding. “Worth a try,” he commented, summoning another knife with a flick of his wrist and launching the tongs over his shoulder with nary a glance behind him.

They flew into a flurry of blows, blades glancing off one another in rapid succession, never making contact with skin but leaving plenty of nicks on furniture and walls as they worked their way from the kitchen to the foyer, finally returning to the living room and coming to a pause, blades locked together with neither side budging.

Walter raised his right hand in a casual salute, knife blade resting at his temple. “It would seem we are at an impasse,” he noted wryly, eyeing his young not-quite adversary.

Jim barked out a startled laugh. “Yeah, I guess we are, he agreed, resting the point of his sword on the floor and leaning on the pommel.

“You might not want to do that,” Walter cautioned, reaching out as if to pull Jim off of his impromptu anchor. 

"Why not” the teen challenged, raising an eyebrow as if daring Walter to object.

The older man simply quirked a brow of his own and nodded to where the point of the blade was digging into the oak flooring.

“Oh _shit!_ ” Jim swore, scrambling completely upright and sweeping the sword into his arms. “The hardwood!”

Light footsteps alerted the duo to Barbara's approach, and she entered the room with a look of disapproval. “Language, young man!” she called, eyes narrowing. “Just because you vanquish an evil army of trolls does _not_ allow you to swear as you please. Nothing is so important that it merits— _shit_.” She cut herself off in an echo of her son. “Is that my hardwood?” Her brows drew together in a ferocious frown. 

Jim and Walter exchanged a glance.

“I think…” the boy began, edging sideways toward the door— 

“And my  _molding_?!” Barbara continued, voice escalating as she took in the various notches in her door frames, turning in place to take in the foyer and kitchen as well.

“—it’s time to go.” Walter finished Jim’s earlier sentence, snapping his arms out to the side and banishing his knives. He thrust a hand at Jim. “Truce?”

 Jim cast a quick look at his mother, who was surveying the shambles of her living room with a fierce expression and appeared close to spitting fire. “Truce,” he agreed emphatically, shaking the proffered appendage. 

Barbara let out a loud exclamation about her broken lamp, and the two men exchanged looks that would, on lesser beings, be considered ones of abject terror. They turned tail to the wind and bolted to the door.

“GottagoMomloveyoubye!” Jim yelled over his shoulder, dashing down the driveway and out into the street.

“Duty calls, Barbara, emergency at the school and all that, you know how it is.” Walter’s exit was much more elegant but no less rapid than Jim’s his legs carrying him quickly across the threshold out into the yard.

Before Barbra could even open her mouth to object he was gone, door slamming shut behind him and leaving her with an empty room. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, then slowly opened them, trying diligently to ignore the gouges in her wood and flooring. "They are  _dead_ when they get back," she muttered, knowing she would see Walter long before Jim ever decided to resurface. She snagged a knife that sat embedded in the wall. If Walt wanted to encourage sword fights in  _her_ house he had one heck of a surprise coming his way when he decided to walk back through that door.

Smirking, she settled down in an armchair to wait. 


	7. Study Session

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Barbara helps Jim study, and Walter studies Barbara.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say I am SO excited for the final season at the end of the month? I expect I will have a resurgence of inspiration and have a burst of posts and updates with new fics and updates to this one. In the meantime, enjoy some more random fluff and attempted smut!
> 
> (attempted in that Fate intervenes in the form of a snarky teenager)

“Does that make sense?” Barbara asked, tapping the tip of her eraser against the textbook diagram. She and Jim were sprawled out across his bed, leaning over a thick biology text and staring at it with opposing looks of exasperation (Jim) and fond recollection (Barbara). The former was in the final sprint to the end of his junior year of high school and had an overwhelming smattering of exams looming on the horizon, and the latter had been recruited as a tutor for a particularly trying advanced biology course.

It was a beautiful Sunday, the window open halfway to let a warm May breeze filter through the room and carry with it the faintest hint of summer. Light danced in intricate patterns against the walls as it filtered through the trees, one or two newly-unfurled leaves gamboling in with the occasional gust.

Jim, however, paid it no mind, his thoughts bent on the large book before him. Brow furrowed, he frowned at the page, processing the plethora of information spanning its breadth. “Yeah, I think so,” he finally conceded. “Although I don’t get whey it takes eight paragraphs, four illustrations, and one _really_ confusing and unnecessary diagram to tell me that the kidneys filter water out of the blood by affecting the salinity of the surrounding tissue.”

Snickering, Barbara turned an expectant look upon her son. “And what is the specific structure called that controls the concentration gradient in the medulla?” she tested. She had been delighted when Jim approached her with a mother-son biology cram session—between her work schedule, Jim’s school schedule, and the extracurricular duties brought on by his Trollhunter-ing, she was more than ready to seize any opportunity to spend time with him. To be able to share some of _her_ knowledge, well, that was just an added bonus.

Her son squinted at the wall, eyes flitting across the mural of leaf shadows cast my the sun as he diligently avoided looking at the open pages before him. “The….loop of Henle?” he finally posed, grinning in triumph as Barbara beamed and nodded. She couldn’t quite agree with the organization of the text, and she didn’t really approve of the teacher’s methodology or educational style, but science was science and she felt like Jim would be more than prepared for his upcoming final.

She perused the page in front of her, scanning it for other likely test questions. “So,” she prompted, “animals in hot environments will have a…?” She let the question hang and turned a quizzical eye on Jim.

“Longer one!” Jim recalled. “That way they can make the most of the water they drink.”

Smiling, Barbara squeezed his shoulder. “That’s my boy! We’ll make a scientist of you yet!” Jim didn’t know it, but she and Walter had been putting money into a steadily growing pool regarding Jim’s future. Barbara insisted he would wind up doing something with his culinary skills, while Walter insisted he would either settle down quite happily as the lead knight at a Renaissance festival ( _“not_ funny, Walter!”) or get “sucked into the inescapable abyss of educating the youth of America”.

Regardless, science was not in any future he or his family could foresee. Jim harrumphed and rolled his eyes, waving off the remark with a sardonic grin. “Nah,” he said dismissively, “I’m just going to move to Trollmarket when I graduate and defend it from all nefarious foes and allow the gratuities and thanks of its kind citizens support me throughout my life.”

Barbara’s eyes narrowed and she scrutinized him for a minute before finally deciding he was joking. “Not funny, you,” she poked him in the chest before flipping to the next page. “Now, give me the main steps of a nervous system reaction. You have thirty seconds.” 

The scene could have been one out of a cinema piece, Walter mused, leaning silently against the door frame and observing the pair with what he would have considered a sentimental smile in anyone other than himself. There was no denying that Barbara and her son had cemented themselves quite firmly in his affections, hammering down the walls he had carefully erected around his stone heart and putting down rather permanent roots.

Jim had an admirable thirst for knowledge, when he remained focused long enough on his academics to truly do them justice, and Walter wholeheartedly believed he could make a scholar of the boy yet. Given enough time, it was much more likely an outcome than any medical career. Jim was dedicated, and had a thirst from knowledge that could not be taught. If anything were to slow him down, it would be the _patience_ that would expire before such an end were reached. 

It was such a foreign concept to have another being, another _pair_ of beings, occupy his thoughts and concerns. Walter worked with children five days of the week, had interacted with more parents than he could ever hope to count—he had long since thought himself immune to any kind of paternal affiliations.

He had never had a family growing up himself, so why should such affectations impact him now? No mother or father, and his brethren were the closest things to siblings he would have. (Although, _true_ siblings, even amongst full trolls, typically did not routinely engage in attempted fratricide.)

But here, now, in this present that had built itself up around his carefully constructed walls and sent them crashing to the ground in a single calculated blow, he was once again struck by the immensity of his feelings for the two very special mortals in the room beyond. Sunday afternoon that it was, he had nothing pressing to do at that moment and found himself enjoying observing the back-and-forth between Barbara and young Jim.

Family in this capacity, in _any_ capacity, was a novel experience. He had been raised on Machiavellian principles, weaned on Darwinism and fed a single-minded diet of selfishness in the name of Gunmar’s cause—the kind where you fought to keep yourself alive at the cost of your comrades yet were equally dispensable in the eyes of the regime.

Love was a weakness, a liability, a chink in the armor through which a foe’s tooth or claw or dagger could easily penetrate. Even earlier in his and Barbara’s budding—if tumultuous, at times—relationship, Walter had felt an outsider, standing on one side of a thick window while he watched Barbara and Jim on the other, separated by a thick pane of glass that he could crack and peer through but never fully open.

 Here, now, in the very real and present day, that glass had finally shattered, leaving him open and exposed to an affection and regard whose utter alien nature left him reeling. In the room beyond, Jim said something that made Barbara laugh, a beatific chime full of unchecked joy and simple adoration. Her eyes shone a brilliant azure, alight with mirth and merriment, and Walter felt his heart contract at how unashamedly  _happy_ she was, unchecked by the typical constraints of the work day and rigors and responsibilities of being the primary parental party of a teenaged Trollhunter. 

Such an overpowering surge of raw affection was still new enough in his life that he was caught totally off guard, and Walter had to mentally corral his churning thoughts to reinforce the utter _rightness_ of the moment.  It was not weakness, was not failure or a flaw or any other such filth that had been drilled into his head by incessant years of repetition.

Rather, it was simple, true affection and regard for the two humans sprawled out across the navy comforter in the small bedroom beyond.

At some point during his musings he had shifted slightly so that he now stood inside of the room, leaning back against the inside of the door frame, and he realized to his complete dismay that his soft smile from before had returned, free of the usual snark or wry amusement and leaving him feeling uncomfortably exposed. A flash of white from the bed caught his eye, and the back of his neck flushed as he saw a knowing grin spread across Jim’s face. Walter bit back a muttered curse and just barely avoided rolling his eyes. He would never be able to live it down—the mighty Stricklander who had survived every major war of the last seven centuries, going soft at a single moment of family bonding between the Trollhunter and his mother.

Walter’s brows furrowed in consternation as his muscles tensed, and then he shook his head and exhaled, ridding his body of all its excess tension as he relaxed, resigning himself to his fate. He gave the slightest of shrugs in Jim’s direction and the boy’s grin widened.

Flipping his book closed with a soft _thud_ and leaning over to kiss his mother’s cheek, Jim scooted over to the edge of the mattress and swung his feet around to the floor. “Thanks for the help, Mom,” he said, bouncing off the bed and springing up to grab his bag from its resting place near the dresser. “We’ve been at it for a while and it’s a _gorgeous_ day—think I can head out with Tobes on the Vespa for a bit?”

Barbara gave a good-natured shrug and a smile, knowing a lost cause when she saw one. “Sure, Jim. Just—” 

“Be careful,” he chirped, interrupting with a grin. “I know.” He darted toward the door, pausing briefly to punch Walter in the shoulder with mischievous glint in his eyes. “You’re getting soft, old man,” Jim snickered, dodging Walter’s half-hearted answering blow, and then he was gone, a trail of laughter floating behind in his wake.

Barbara slid to her feet, passing a hand through her messy ginger curls before padding over to join Walter at the door. “And how long have you been here?” she teased, slipping an arm around his waist and leaning into his chest. She took a deep breath in, relishing the rich, unique scent of parchment and sandalwood and stony earth and something _else_ that dominated her senses in his presence. 

He chuckled and rested his chin on the top of her head, pressing his nose to her hair. “Oh, since around the time of your little nephrology quiz,” he replied, ghosting a hand up her side to rest against her upper back and press her more firmly into his arms.

Warm breath tickled the hollow of his throat as she exhaled contentedly into his neck, pressing her forehead into the dip of his shoulder and enjoying the contrast of the soft fabric of his t-shirt against the solid muscle layered underneath. “How did I ever get so lucky?” she mused, snaking her other arm around him to join its partner at the small of his back.

“That young man is all your doing,” Walter told her seriously, squeezing her shoulder and drawing back enough to meet her eyes with his own green gaze. “I can’t count the number of youth I’ve dealt with throughout the course of my rather long life, and he is among only a small handful that truly stood out to me.” His lips quirked into a smile and he pressed a light kiss to her temple. “And he is the _only_ one for whom I have ever cared so much.”

Barbara ducked her head bashfully, secretly delighted that he was comfortable enough to be so open with such personal emotions. “He thinks a lot of you, too, you know,” she told him, curving her palm to fit his face, thumb tracing the elegant line of his cheek in a gentle caress.

Walter tilted his head to press a light kiss to her palm before lowering it to brush his lips across her ear. “And his _mother_ ,” he murmured, the rough texture of his chapped lips and the smooth timbre of his voice sending goosebumps erupting across her skin, “is without a doubt the most _magnificent_ human I have ever had the honor of knowing.”

Flushing again, this time for an entirely different reason, Barbara curled a hand around the fine white hairs at the nape of his neck, tracing a light pattern through the silky strands. “You can’t have known that many humans, then,” she teased in reply, leaning up to press her lips to his jaw.

Walter caught her chin in one large palm, holding her head steading and bringing his eyes level with hers. “Too many,” he contradicted, “far too many.” His face inched closer to hers with each word, his eyes taking on a dangerous emerald sheen that sent a shudder of pure _want_ rippling through Barbara. “But,” he breathed, lips ghosting across hers, darting in to caress first one corner, then the other, of her lush mouth, “never any so well as I have known you.”

Breath catching in her throat, Barbara closed the scant distance that remained between them, claiming his lips in a searching quest for dominance, nipping and stroking and taking and demanding.

Walter gave all, tangling his hands in her flaming hair, nails scratching lightly at her scalp as she plundered his mouth.

The graze of his nails against her skin, so reminiscent of stony claws in other less-controlled moments, had her groaning into his mouth and grinding against him shamelessly, hips pressing against his as she pinned him against the wall. Her hands slid down to find his wrists, gripping them tightly and leading them down to her waist.

Never one to let a cue go unheeded, Walter slid his hands around to cup her rear, drawing her even closer to him and coaxing a wanton moan from her lips. He nipped a trail along the pale column of her neck, tongue soothing even as teeth sought skin. “You are marvelous,” he praised, sacrificing one hand’s grip to reach up and cup her jaw, nuzzling the juncture of her neck and collarbone. “I have known no one—Troll, human, or Changeling—who can compare.”

Barbara smiled, leaning up to kiss the tip of his nose before sliding a leg up his hip. “You’re not too shabby yourself,” she teased in reply, the serious cast of her eyes silently conveying everything omitted by her playful tone. She shuddered as he suddenly gripped her waist and spun them around, pinning her against the wall with his larger frame and slipping his hands underneath the hem of her shirt.  

_Thunk!_

Barbara yelped and jumped back, hitting her head against the wall as Walter recoiled, head rearing back and eyes flashing red as he scanned the room for a potential threat.

“What on earth?” Barbara exclaimed, hand flying to her heart as she peered quizzically around the room.

The source of the disruption sat embedded in the wall across from the window, a slim dagger protruding just below the molding, still quivering from the force of its impact.

“Is that one of yours?” Barbara asked, peering at it quizzically, having long since become accustomed to sharp instruments of destruction embedding themselves in various components of her home.

Brow furrowed, Walter stood on his tiptoes to grasp the knife and pry it free. “It _shouldn’t_ be,” he murmured, eyes narrowing as he plucked a piece of paper from the tip of the blade. Delicately, he unfolded the small scrap, long fingers smoothing out the creases. His eyes narrowed as he scanned it, then rolled upward toward the ceiling as he turned to Barbara with a wry smile, extending his hand so that she could read the words scratched neatly across the page in Jim’s messy scrawl:

_NOT in my room._

Barbara blushed as Walter chuckled. “I don’t know whether to be proud, amused, or mortified,” he drawled, stowing the dagger away and pulling her back against his chest.

“Let’s settle for a mix of all three,” she sighed, twisting in his grasp and pushing him away with the tips of her fingers. “And _not_ have sex in my teenaged son’s bedroom.”

 Walter gave her a mischievous grin, running his hands lightly along her sides, thumbs curling around the undersides of her breasts. “What about in the hallway outside?”

Exasperation gave way to expectation, and Barbara curled into his waiting grasp, folding herself into his embrace and allowing him to lead her out into the hall. “Oh,” she purred, sliding her hands up the taut skin of his stomach, “I think we can work something out.” She nodded toward the textbook on the bed. “After all, school’s out for the day.”

Walter’s eyes turned positively predatory as he scooped her into his arms. “Only if you choose not to do your homework,” he rumbled, smiling wickedly, “and I rather think it’s an assignment you won’t want to miss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just feel like having a teenager around would be the ultimate cockblock...


	8. The Point of the Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Barbara finds herself a bit distracted by Walter's natural affinity with blades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came across a comment on tumblr (I'm one of those who never actually posts but loves to get on and peruse awesome fandom debates and art) about Barbara being turned on by watching Walt with knives, and it instantly became assimilated into my personal headcanon. 
> 
> So, naturally, the next step was to make it a chapter in here. 
> 
> Sorry for the lack of updates, work and real life picked up for a bit! I'll try to get back to updating this and Anecdotal Evidence more regularly, I promise!

Barbara Lake had a Problem.

She knew it when she watched Walter spar with Jim, the former all sleek muscle and grace and sharp steel as he ducked and dodged and parried her son’s attacks, knives flashing like silver lightning through the air as he moved. She didn’t fear for Jim’s safety—not anymore—and was free instead to sit back and admire the skill and dexterity with which Walter administered his attacks, the ease with which he handled the deadly weapons making her shiver where she sat.

Barbara Lake had a big Problem.

She knew it when she and Walter were in the kitchen, he making dinner and she contributing through her company alone, perched on a barstool with a glass of wine and having long since forgone any attempts to actually assist. The way his lean, dextrous fingers—sometimes human flesh, sometimes dark green stone—curved tenderly around the hilt of his knife as he chopped made gooseflesh erupt across her flesh, her breath catching as she felt the phantom caress of those very same fingers skim her heated skin.

Barbara Lake had one _hell_ of a damn Problem.

Heck, she knew it when the man was applying a Swiss Army knife (“How very Boy Scout of you, Walt,” she had teased, hand carding and curling through the thick white strands of hair at the nape of his neck) to a delivery box that refused to open.

Walter had a dangerous side to his personality, a casually dark flair and finesse that showed itself at the strangest of times—most recently, whenever he held a knife in his hands. Much of it was unwitting on his part, an idle habit formed by long years of solitude and a consistent need to have weapons at the ready. He would often sit reading, immersed in some book or ancient tome, absently twirling a blade through the fingers of the hand not turning pages. At dinner, his fingers would fiddle with the flatware, tracing the edges of stark and butter knives alike, always so finely in-tune with the tools that he so often held in combat.

There was no denying that he had a way with knives, an unconscious affinity that lent him an inherent grace and allure that consistently drew Barbara in like a moth to a flame. She went weak at the knees whenever he reached for a blade, heard the blood thundering in her head when he fiddled idly with one of his many knives. Lord help her if he were actually _using_ one. 

Yes, Barbara had a problem—and one that showed no sign of going anywhere.

It came to a head one night after dinner, an uncharacteristically stormy evening in the heart of September sending waves of rain pounding against roof, the water-splattered windows showing a wall of solid black, towering clouds camping on the horizon. Jim was out at Toby’s and had already texted to say he would be spending the night rather than braving the monsoon outside.

Barbara had needled him briefly, a grin playing on her face as she chastised him for being willing to fight trolls five times his size but not willing to brave “a little rain”. Of course, it _did_ leave her a rare weeknight home alone with Walter, so she didn’t want to push her son too hard lest he get it in his head to actually return home.

The overcast evening found the duo sequestered on the sofa in the living room after a low-key meal of lasagna and salad and perhaps a _bit_ too much wine. Walter was grading papers, a great stack of essays scattered out before him on the coffee table, feet propped up on the couch with a book braced on his bent knees as a makeshift table. Barbara occupied the other end of the sofa and was alternating between perusing the latest in her preferred series of mystery novels and stealing covert glances at the man whose feet were practically resting in her lap.

It was a far more casual position than he would have ever assumed in times past—in the years before all of his grading had been done in his rather uncomfortable office chair at the school desk, days blending seamlessly into evenings and nights with him still bent over his work, face set in an irritated frown as he scratched out misspelled works and mislabeled dates, all the while ignoring the ferocious crick developing in his back.

Somehow, though, in the course of the last few months, he had found himself releasing those final few barriers of propriety and formality, allowing them to fall away in favor of embracing certain aspects of his humanity that he had previous kept locked away and out of sight.

He graded with a vengeance, green eyes skimming page after page as the marked the errors of America’s youth, fountain pen scratching against the paper in dramatic red lines in tempo to the drum of the rain against the windows.

This wouldn’t have been an issue, would have been _routine,_ even, except—he handled the pen with the same finesse he did his knives, long fingers tracing the contours of the tool as he red, the unconscious gesture most assuredly not passing unnoticed by his counterpart.

Barbara was managing it quite well, she thought—ignoring his unintended seduction was no easy task even when he _wasn’t_ essentially halfway in her lap. She kept her eyes turned down to her book, finger tracing her lips, gaze occasionally cutting sideways to _not watch_ him tap the pen against his chin, _not_ fiddle idly with the lid held in his opposite hand, _not_ discard both with a growl of irritation and tack the offending essay to the opposite wall with a quivering knife.

(Her insides lurched as he did so, and she had to forcibly repress a shudder at the way his eyes flashed a brilliant yellow as he growled lowly under his breath, muttering obscenities in some long-extinct language).

“Morons,” he muttered, switching to English as he retrieved the next paper from the stack and settled back against the cushions. This time, he forewent the pen entirely, holding a slim dagger in his right hand as he braced the essay against his book with his left. He sighed heavily, eyes rolling skyward, tip of the blade pressing _just so_ against his chin so as not to leave a mark, mouth turned down in an idle frown as he scanned the latest in the ongoing series of drivel.

Wetting her lips, Barbara canted her head to watch him from beneath her eyelids, the contents of her book all but forgotten as she observed the changeling beside her. He had been quite human in his actions lately (barring a few rather _adventurous_ evenings they had spent together) but on nights such as these she could quite easily see both of his natures playing out in his actions and expressions—and was quite taken by them both, regardless of what he or anyone else might so quickly assume.

A slightly inhuman tint shone in his eyes as his irritation grew, and he began shuffling the dagger between his hands, passing it from left to right in a rapid-fire transfer from hilt to blade, blade to hilt, steel catching the light of the lamp in a bright flash that mimicked the lightning outside.

Thunder rumbled outside, a low drone abasing the backdrop of the rain’s steady, fervent drum against the glass of the window, the storm continuing its assault on the world at large beyond the confines of their home. It was almost soothing—would have been without a doubt—except for the undercurrent of something _more_ that hung in the air, rich and thick and cloying.

When Walter frowned and bit the tip of the blade in his hand, eyes narrowing at some particularly inane passage on the page before him, Barbara conceded defeat and gave up all pretense of her fiend nonchalance. She all but lunged across the couch, sending papers flying and Walter’s book thudding to the floor, caging him against the armrest with a hand on either side of his shoulders as she pinned his hips in place between her knees.

“You,” she declared, glaring down at him, “are utterly distracting.”

Walter blinked, stared at the rather feisty redhead who had just planted herself in his lap, and blinked again. “Barbara, love,” he queried, hands skimming lightly up her sides after banishing his knife to who-knows-where, “not that I mind the distraction, but,” he quirked an amused eyebrow, pursing his lips, “What inspired such a bodily assault?”

Eyes rolling skyward, she smacked his chest lightly with one hand, its partner trailing lazily up to palm his jaw. “ _You,”_ she declared, thus tracing the contours of his cheekbone, “are utterly infuriating and altogether far too distracting.” The hand at his chest rose to his cheek, cradling his head in both palms as she knelt over his sprawled torso, nearly nose-to-nose with him and all but devouring him with her eyes.

“Distracting?” he managed to choke out, the word tumbling from his mouth in an undignified gasp as she shifted _just so_ , brushing against one part of his anomy that was indeed _very much_ distracted.

“Mmhmmm,” she murmured in assent, brushing her nose against his. “You and you damn knives—you wield them with such skill and fines and draw every eye in the room.” She paused and pulled back slightly to give him an exasperated look. “And you are absolutely _oblivious_ to your very obvious allure while doing so.”

That gave him a brief moment of pause, for of all the things he could have expected her to say this was quite possibly one of the last on the list. “My…knives,” he repeated, eyebrows so close to his hairline they were nearly swallowed by it. Slowly his eyes narrowed, a knowing smirk stealing across his lips. _“That_ actually explains quite a lot,” he mused, wrapping his arms around the small of her back and tugging her down against his chest. “All the furtive looks, the smiles when you think Jim and I are too distracted in our spar of the day to noticed—the lack of protest of late when you see a dagger embedded in your wall—“ 

Barbara cut him off with a finger to his lips. “Walter, I will _never_ be pleased to see more nicks and dents and _knives_ in my wall,” she contested, rolling her eyes. Then she blushed, a touch of red spreading from her cheeks down along the small bit of her chest bared by the v-neck of her top. “But, I can’t deny the other two,” she murmured in assent.

He snickered and then lifted his head to skim his lips across the blush spanning her chest. “Doctor Lake,” he purred, drawing his mouth up to pass along her collarbone. “I had no idea my weapons fascinated you so much”.

She squirmed as his grip shifted, curling about her waist and dancing across her rear, hands in a slow, constant circuit of movement. “Well,” she muttered, looking at him from under shaded lashed, “I haven’t exactly been _subtle_ about it. Though,” she paused, rolling her eyes, “not for lack of trying. It’s been utterly disruptive to my flow of work around the house.”

And Walter thought back through the course of the past few weeks, recalling the pile of laundry hangers clattering to the ground as Barbara stumbled across him sharpening a large portion of his collection, the half-washed dishes in the sink as he put away the cutlery, the vacuum passing through the living room ten times one afternoon as he and Jim fought their way across the backyard. A wicked grin spread across his face. “Perhaps we just need to…relieve some of that tension,” he murmured, rising to his feet in one sudden, smooth movement, scooping her up in his arms as he did.

Barbara shuddered at his words, a thrill of pleasurable anticipation surging through her. Sternly, she tamped down on her errant hormones and cocked her head to one side, staring over his shoulder at the papers scattered across the living room floor. “What about your grading?” she asked practically, lacing enough genuine concern into her words to mask the shriek of “ _Who cares?”_ sounding in her head.

Settling into a more secure grip, Walter started toward the stairs, barely sparing the texts a second glance. “Who cares?” he asked, eyes bright. “I’ve been trying to grade them for two days and haven’t made it through the stack. What’s another? I quite assure you, my students would most likely prefer they not _ever_ get them back.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I quite honestly never intended to make the grade count anyway.”

Blue eyes rolled skyward as Barbara shook her head. “Then why even assign the damn essay in the first place if you weren’t going to truly grade it? What’s the point of that?”

And Walter’s grin curved into one that showed quite a few more teeth. “The _point,”_ he drawled eloquently, setting her down on her feet and backing her up against the wall, “is that I am not blind. The _point_ is that I have known for few weeks where your mind has been taking you.” He pressed his lips to hers in a searing kiss, hands caging her against wall. “The _point,”_ he concluded in a rumbling growl, mouth against her throat, “is that I know your secret and have been waiting for the proper opportunity for you to give it away.” His eyes flashed yellow, and he ever so gently pressed the tip of a dagger to her collarbone. “That, my dear, is _the point.”_

Barbara looking from the knife to Walter with wide eyes and thought that she could not possibly adore this man any more. She knocked the blade from his hand and pulled him back down to her, arms snaking about his neck and one leg curling around his waist. “You are such an ass,” she panted, hands carding through his thick hair.

He laughed and scooped her back up again. “And you wouldn’t have me any other way,” he declared, pressing one last kiss to her lips. 

Barbara smiled, sitting back in his arms, all teasing lost to the lust and genuine affection in her gaze. “And that, love,” she said, tapping his chest with a nod, “is the _true_ point.” She quirked an eyebrow at him and nodded toward the stairs. "All that aside, though," she murmured, "I rather like yours as well. Perhaps we can meet in the middle?"

"Oh, I think we can manage something along those lines," he declared, staring at her intently. "After all, you cut such a fine figure how could I ever resist."

"Walt."

He took a few steps up the stairwell. "And you usually have such a handle on your self control, to see it  _severed_ so is utterly distracting."

" _Walt."_

He pressed a kiss to her brow. "And the tension in the room was so thick you could practically cut it with a knife."

"Waaaaalt."

His feet shuddered to a halt. "Yes, my dear?"

Barbara scowled up at him hand curling around his bicep. "Are you going to keep making lame knife puns, or are you going to cut to the chase and just ravish me already?" She couldn't contain a slight smirk as Walter laughed and gave her a knowing grin. 

"Your wish is my command."


	9. Always Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbara Lake's terrible, horrible, no-good very bad day....doesn't exactly have the worst ending in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh goodness, I apologize for not updating in nearly six months! I can't believe it's been that long! I got sucked into some side fandoms, so I had to divert my attention and write for those for a while. Plus, I've had a nice dose of "real world life stuff" the last while, so I've been living in the moment rather than online. Hard to find time to write when you are always busy!
> 
> But, if any of you can forgive me enough to read on, here's another little glimpse into the slightly AU life of our favorite family. Cheers!

“It’s always something,” Barbara sighed, running a hand through her wet hair and dropping her purse on the bar. She gave her car keys a dark look before looping them on the hook on the wall and kicking her soggy flats over to the corner behind the door. 

“Bad day?” Walter asked, poking his head around the corner of the living room. He took in her damp, rumpled scrub pants and the deluge outside, and crossed the kitchen in a few quick strides to help her shrug off her sopping wet top. As he set the garment aside, leaving her in a simple, well-loved tank, his brow furrowed at the dark expression in her eyes. “What is it, my dear?” he asked. He caught her wrist in a tender grasp, drawing her toward him and running his hands along her arms as he guided her into his embrace.

Barbara grumbled incoherently, burying her nose in his soft t-shirt and snaking her arms around his waist.

Walter could not help but snicker at her utterly juvenile response to his questions. He hummed low in his chest and could feel Barbara smile against the fabric in response to the vibrations. “So, I’ll ask again,” he said, shifting slightly and tilting her face up to his with a gentle finger beneath her chin, “What happened?”

Shoulders lifting in a half-hearted shrug, Barbara’s blue eyes slid self-consciously away from his. “Nothing, really,” she groused, shaking her head. “Just one of those things. Took the car for an oil change after I got off night shift, and then the battery was faulty and they found a bad tire, so THAT was another thing to replace, and…” Slipping from his embrace, she grabbed at her glasses and swiped a hand across her eyes, blinking ferociously and refusing to meet his gaze. “It’s stupid—I know I had to do it, but money’s been tight lately and I’ve been trying not to put more on my credit card, but I didn’t have enough in checking to cover it so I had to—“

She bit off with a grimace, face turning a red to match her hair, and buried her face in his shirt again rather than meet his pensive gaze.

Walter knew Barbara was fiercely independent—she would have to be, after bringing up her son by herself for ten years while working full time as a medical doctor. She brought home a more-than-modest salary from her job, but between bills and clothing, feeding, and maintaining the lifestyle of a conscientious yet rapidly growing teenage boy some months still managed to be tighter than she would prefer.

“You know I have countless resources at my disposal, my dear,” Walter offered, his face drawn in concern. “I can happily share.” It was an argument voiced countless times, Barbara refusing every time on principal. She had made it this long on her own—to acknowledge a need for help now would be tantamount to admitting defeat.

Her eyes narrowed, her refusal already sitting on her lips.

“Just—listen,” Walter forestalled her objection, raising a hand and pressing his index finger to her mouth. “Can you do that for me?”

Barbara’s already-narrowed eyes became azure slits, but, mouth tight, she nodded.

“Good.” Walter withdrew his finger, reaching down to clasp one of her hands in both of his. His thumb traced the veins lining her wrist, fingers twining through hers as he lowered his head to brush a kiss across her knuckles. “Barbara, I all but live here already. We share meals, I spend the night more often than not, and I feel like I _belong_ here. The least you can do is let me contribute to household expenses.”

Barbara sighed, expelling the breath she had taken in preparation for her rebuttal, squeezing his fingers. “That…is actually a fair proposal,” she admitted with a chagrined expression, looking out the window rather than meet his eyes.

Walter blinked, hardly able to hide his surprise. “It…is?” The hand not clasped in hers rose to rub his neck. “Well, I _know_ it is, but I didn’t expect you to actually agree this time—though I had hoped desperately that you would,” he added hastily, fearing she might retract her approval at his words.

Laughing slightly despite herself, Barbara shrugged and led him into the living room. Outside, rain pounded against the roof, a grey day to complete her grey mood. Giving the sky a dark look, she flopped down indecorously on the couch, tugging Walter along with her so that he lay sprawled half atop her, squeezed between her prone form and the sofa back. “I’m proud,” she admitted, curving an arm around his back and pulling him close, “but eventually common sense does win out.” Sighing, she pressed her face into his shoulder. “It makes sense for you to assist—but, I hate that I must ask it of you.”

Chuckling despite himself, Walter trailed the backs of his fingers across her cheek. “You ask nothing I do not already offer,” he chided, pressing a gentle kiss to her brow.

Muttering indecipherably, Barbara shifted and tugged him closer to rest alongside her, snuggling in close to his sweater and closing her eyes. She exhaled, allowing the trials of the day to ease from her body, leaving her limp and fragile in his arms. She so very rarely showed any weakness, spent all of her time and energy taking care of everyone else that she never allowed herself the time be human.

Walter adored her humanity, cherished it and held it close like the delicate flower it was. He smoothed a hand over her fiery hair, brushing her bangs from her eyes and threading his fingers through the thick strands at the base of her neck. “Rest,” he breathed, shifting so that Barbara was resting on top of him, securely cradled in his arms, her head pillowed on his chest.

Eyes already fluttering, Barbara nodded tiredly, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder as she snuggled into him. “Love you,” she murmured, lips tickling the skin at the hollow of his neck.

“And I you,” he replied, pressing his lips to her forehead and allowing himself to drift, serenaded by the ongoing assault of the storm outside.

They lay together for a long while, lulled by the crashing thunder, its roar shaking the house. Bolts of bright lightning ripped across the darkening sky, casting light to rival the sun across the dreary evening horizon.

Raindrops drilled the windows like little bullets, rapping out a sharp cadence forceful enough to tug Barbara from the hazy state of not-quite-wakefulness she had been enjoying for the past hour, her mind clinging stubbornly to the ideals of a restful sleep even amidst the early evening deluge.

Physically, she was exhausted, sore muscles loudly protesting three nights of twelve-plus hour shifts at the hospital as she tended an onslaught of emergency room patients. She’d finally been banished by her supervisor that morning at the end of her shift, the older woman steering her gently but firmly out the door—she had not even mentioned _that_ aspect of the day to Walter, fearing he might sentence her to house arrest for the duration of her time off.

After the terrible day that had followed, the _last_ thing she needed was an outpouring of overt care and concern. She sighed, curling up more snugly against Walter. They had shifted somewhat in the course of their extended nap, Walter turning on his side and tucking Barbara up against him, arms crossed across her middle as he held her snug against him.

Barbara’s hands curled around those solid arms, tracing patterns across the wiry muscles hiding just beneath his skin. Walter spooned up behind her with his face pressed against her neck, breath ghosting across her shoulders in a warm, steady cadence.

There was something so soothing about being held in such a manner, the simple comfort offered from such a base instant of contact something that she had been without for so long that she had forgotten just how much the human spirit craved it. She had been independent for years out of sheer necessity but now, nestled in the arms of a being she trusted implicitly with both mind and body, she realized just how much she had been missing throughout the years of her self-imposed exile.

She knew, too, that Walter felt much the same. Indeed, he had been without any form of genuine affection for far longer than she, passing centuries alone and starved of even the simplest touch. She couldn’t help but smile as he shifted onto his back, drawing her with him so that she lay nestled atop him, his chest rose and fell beneath her in flow, measured breaths. “You’re a good man, Walt,” she whispered into his neck, giggling to herself as he mumbled incoherently and tugged her closer.

Just when she thought she had him figured out, he went and did something so sweet or kind that she could barely stand it. Asking for help was not part of her day-to-day vocabulary—but, she was also guilty of overlooking assistance genuinely offered, as well.

Scooting sideways, she dug her thumb into Walter’s ribs, pressing _just so_ and snickering as he shifted back to his troll form in a flash of green. She had discovered _that_ particular pressure point a few months back during one of their more physical encounters. Since then, she had been enjoying experimenting with it as Walter slept. Having him awaken, flustered and confused to discover himself in his troll form, was one of her favorite ways to start the day.

His stony body was smooth but not rigid, the minerals comprising his skin flexible beneath her touch, warm to her hands if cooler than the average human temperature. She traced the ridges of his brow, trailed her fingers down to caress the curve of his cheek, the sharp point of one protruding fang, mapping out patterns of sensation across his skin.

Walter let out a grunting snore, his head lolling to fall against the back of the sofa. Chuckling, Barbara tucked herself against his side, listening to the soothing cadence of the rain against the roof.They should get up soon, she knew—Jim would be home from his training and as infrequently as he passed through the house nowadays she tried to optimize the time they _did_ have to spend together. But—she also never felt that she had enough time with her trollish teddy bear, either.

One great, clawed hand smoothed up and down her back in broad strokes, and Barbara gave in and succumbed to the siren call of sleep, her eyes fluttering vainly as her breaths deepened and she fell completely asleep, glasses sliding down her nose as she shifted.

In the hall, the door slammed open and then closed as a tired, soggy teenager spewed into the foyer. As he shrugged out of his sopping wet jacket with a grimace, Jim caught a glimpse of his mom and Strickler sound asleep on the couch. a fond grin touched his lips as he took in the scene. “Dorks,” he muttered, sliding out of his wet sneakers and creeping closer. A devious smirk split his face as he realized Strickler was in his troll form.

Jim had learned over the years that trolls were much less sensitive to certain touches, particularly when unconscious. Fishing in his backpack, he snagged a sharpie and scooted into the living room, hovering over his sleeping mentor and mother. Eyes narrowed in concentration, he applied every ounce of his artistic ability until finally he sat back, satisfied and admiring his handiwork.

“Magnificent,” he breathed. He pursed his lips and eyed the fake mustache, flowers, and hearts doodled across Walter’s face. “It’s missing something, though…” he murmured, leaning back and squinting. The light of inspiration sparked in his eyes and he darted in again, feather light, and sketched a pair of fangs and a beard on his mother. “Perfect!”

Resisting the urge to laugh, lest he awaken his victims, he retreated, taking Barbara’s precariously-perched eyewear and setting it on the coffee table before he stowed the instrument of his vandalism back in his bag and darting up the stairs. He threw on a clean pair of clothes and shoved an extra set into his bag. “Think I’ll spend the night at Tobes’ place tonight,” he mused, glancing down the stairs with raised eyebrows. He hesitated for a moment, debating leavingnote, but—

“JAMES LAKE JUNIOR!” The bellow from below made him jump, and, cackling, he slid over to the window and let himself out, the two-story drop no longer much of an obstacle. _Definitely_ time to leave. Whistling, he took off into the night, his handiwork done.

**Author's Note:**

> Suggestions for future installments are always welcome, as are comments and critiques. 
> 
> Cheers!


End file.
